


Fly Away

by IncompleteSentanc (Erava)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2018-12-16 18:45:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 32,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11834778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erava/pseuds/IncompleteSentanc
Summary: Sansa Stark was markedly different from her siblings. From the first words she spoke until her last, she was undeniably strange. Jon knows it better than anyone - he was there when she spoke her first.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been sucked into the Time Travel plot and it won't let me goooo...
> 
> (I hope you like it!)

Sansa Stark was markedly different from her siblings. From the first words she spoke until her last, she was undeniably strange. Jon knows it better than anyone - he was there when she spoke her first.

She was three, bright and clearly smart even before anyone heard a word pass her lips. One hand had been clutched in her mother’s dress, the other in her father’s hand, and she’d looked straight at Jon when she said what she said that day.

“The joyful tower.” 

Four simple words had sent the blood rushing from his father’s face, and rushing into Catelyn’s face. 

“Sansa,” Ned said sharply, almost scoldingly, and the girl looked up at him through her lashes. It was pathetically cute, Jon had to admit. But before he could think about anything else, Ned had looked at Catelyn apologetically, pulling the three year old into his arms. The entire way, her blue gaze was locked on Jon’s, expression curious. “She must’ve heard someone talking. One of the servant girls. I’m sorry, Cat.” Ned said quietly, but Catelyn’s expression was hard as stone and her glare was fierce when she leveled it at Jon.

Robb, at his side with Theon a few steps back, grabbed at Jon’s hand. “Let’s go.” He urged and Jon quickly turned to leave.

But the entire way, he could feel her icy eyes burning into his back.

The first words she’d ever said, and they’d haunt him for the rest of his life.

 

* * *

 

His other siblings think she’s strange. The older she gets, the more Jon agrees. 

Sansa’s different from them all, in an untouchable way. “Her mind is lost.” Theon had insisted, after she’d called him the ‘burner of children’. Jon can’t help but agree a little - Theon had his moments of questionable manner, but he wasn’t a ‘burner of children’. It was unthinkable. The boy was too kind for that, even if he wasn’t  _ particularly _ kind to begin with.

“She’s just different.” Jon would say, watching his sister like a hawk. 

She’s five when she gets worse. More  _ vocal. _

And stranger.

She seeks Jon out at random, settling into his lap and petting his hair. “The long night,” She proclaims as she runs her fingers through the dark locks. “You’ll be there.”

“I will?” He asks, smiling at her even as his mind works around her words. ‘The long night’. The long winter?  _ That _ sounded much more familiar.

“You will. On the other side. But we’ll still be together.”

“Together? You’ll be on the other side with me?” He questions, reaching down to hold her closer. Catelyn isn’t around to see the affection, so he doesn’t worry about showing it. 

“I will. Eventually.”

“Good. I’d be lonely without you.” He says lightly.

“You’ll be lonely anyways.” Sansa huffs, like she’s exasperated with him, and he smiles fondly even as the words churn his stomach.

“Why’s that?”

“Because you lose her.” Sansa explains, her voice going sad. “You lose your fire to black arrows in the darkness.”

He’s not sure how to respond to that, so he’s silent for several minutes. Sansa doesn’t seem to mind, still playing with his hair in an absentminded way. 

“Well. I’ll be all the glader to have you, then.” is all he can come up with. She nods but doesn’t smile.

She just frowns, thoughtfully almost, but mostly sad.

“Cheer up, Sansa. Here - I saved you this.” Jon says, pulling out his ever-ready trump card. A lemon cake, carefully snatched from the kitchens and wrapped in a napkin, and Sansa lights up immediately. 

“Lemon cake! I love it.” She smiles brilliantly, taking it from him and eating it right then and there. Jon watches with a small smile and she’s halfway through it when Robb walks into his room. 

He blinks at the scene, an odd expression on his face, before he huffs and shakes his head. “Sansa, mother’s looking for you.”

“Oh.” Jon winces instantly. “You best go, once you’re done. Hide the evidence, will you?” He asks lightly and Sansa smiles at him before swallowing down the last of the cake. She wraps up the crumbs in her napkin and nods at Jon, hopping off his lap.

“She’s in her study. Septa Mordane is with her.” Robb warns Sansa, who gives a haughty sniff before striding past Robb without so much as a second glance.

Robb watches her go, then looks at Jon with a peculiar expression. “I think she likes you more than me.” He complains.

“That’s because you think she’s crazy.”

“So do you!” Robb protests and Jon grins.

“Yeah, but I don’t show it. I actually  _ listen _ to the crazy.”

“That’ll only encourage her.”

“She’s going to do it anyways, Robb.” Jon shrugs lightly. “We might as well let her be heard.”

“I suppose.” Robb accepts reluctantly, then frowns. “Where’d you get a lemon cake? I want one.”

“I sna tched it from the kitchens. Keep that between us, will you?” Jon implores, grinning, and Robb grins back.

“Sure. But next time snatch me one too.”

“I’ll be sure to.” He promises.

 

* * *

 

She isn’t always so… strange. Sometimes she’s normal, dancing with her Septa and singing to a young Arya.

She takes her studies seriously, learns everything at such a speed it’s as if she’d been doing it for years. She learns all the skills the Septa has to teach her by the time she’s six.

He’s nine, and he walks in on one of her stranger moments. She has three year old Arya in her lap, a book on  _ her _ lap, and Sansa appears to be reading from it.

He steps in and realizes instantly that she isn’t.

“You won’t be happy,” Sansa’s telling Arya, who listens with a severe frown. “Not for a long time. You leave us, for a while. But the pack survives. You’ll remember that, won’t you?” Sansa asks, reaching up to tickle at Arya’s neck. The girl instantly lifts her shoulders, trying to protect the delicate skin, and Sansa laughs as the three year old giggles. After a moment, Sansa stops, and goes strange again. A tenseness to her shoulders, a distance in her voice, and Jon knows by now that if he could see her face, she’d be staring at nothing. “The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.” Sansa murmurs.

A chill runs down his back at that and he swallows thickly before sliding silently out of the room. 

 

* * *

 

The way she treats Theon is perhaps one of the strangest things in Jon’s mind. It’s strange, even for her, and Theon finds it utterly  _ infuriating. _

“Burner of children,” Sansa calls him, but she watches him with grim fondness and something that looks like pity. 

“Why do you call him that?” Jon asks her once, her fingers busy with embroidering a new dress for Catelyn, and Sansa doesn’t even look up at him.

“Beca use he is one.”

“He’s never burned a child, Sansa.” Jon tells her, a little gently, and Sansa’s fingers still. She goes stiff all over, but it only lasts a moment before she relaxes. She looks up at him, a tearful smile pulling at her lips.

“No. He hasn’t, has he?” She muses.

There are times when Jon is the only one who can understand her, but sometimes even he finds himself lost in the face of her oddness.

* * *

 

“Heads mounted on a stone wall.” She tells him, eyes red-rimmed and lips twisted unpleasantly. “I’ll never forget the sight. It will follow me forever.”

She’s eight now, and becoming even more alarming. “Whose heads?” Jon asks her, exchanging a dark look with Robb over her head.

“The heads of traitors.” Sansa murmurs sadly. 

“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?” Robb asks carefully, eyes still locked on Jon’s, and the worry in them is reflected in his own. “Traitors die. Father does it himself, sometimes.”

Sansa doesn’t respond to that at first, playing with her fingers. Twining and untwining them in a never ending cycle. 

Eventually, she speaks. “Valar morghulis.”  _ All men must die,  _ Jon reflects, frowning even deeper. He looks away from Robb and to Sansa, reaching out to pet her hair. It’s soft and silky, shining like fire as it moves, and Robb imitates him on her other side. 

He has no idea why she seems so sad, but he tries to reassure her anyways.

“You should rest, Sansa. You look tired.”

“All I do is dream.” She says dismally. “All I ever do is dream. I hate my dreams.”

“Sansa…” Robb says quietly, reaching out to pull her into his side. He hugs her and she leans into it, long hair falling around his arm like a waterfall. “I’ll talk to the maester. He’ll have something to help you rest.”

“I don’t want to sleep. I don’t want to dream.”

“He’ll have something so you don’t dream.” Robb says with confidence, standing up and pulling her with him. Jon watches silently, making no move to follow. He’s concerned, but if Sansa goes to the maester, Catelyn will be on her like white on rice, and Jon doesn’t want to be there when the woman shows up.

He gets enough glares from her as it is. He doesn’t need any extra reminders of her hate for him. 

Sansa turns to look at him half-way out of the room, her eyes shadowed and a hint of longing on her expression.

He smiles tightly at her and tries not to feel too guilty.

There’s nothing he can do for her, anyways.

 

* * *

 

Sansa, of course, has a mind of her own. A crazed mind sometimes, but a mind that is hers, and a stubbornness that matches her parents’ combined. “Why do you always seek me out, Sansa?” Jon asks her once, when she’s ten and he’s ten and three. He’s asked before, but it’s impossible to get a straight answer from the girl. 

“One day it’ll just be you and me, Jon.” Sansa says quietly as they sit under the weirwood tree, her head resting on his shoulder and his arm wrapped around her. She feels cold under his touch, and he shifts so his fur cloak wraps around her as well. “Just you and me.”

“Impossible.” Jon says with forced lightness, even as he tries to figure out what she means by that. “You shouldn’t say that. Robb would never leave you.” 

Arya, who clings to Jon almost as much as Sansa, would also never leave the girl. They are as close as sisters can be. 

“Everyone leaves me.” Sansa says quietly. “But I find you, in the end.” 

“The end?” Jon echoes, brow furrowing.

“Across the Wall and in the wilds.” She says and Jon’s heart skips a beat, because he’s never told anyone his desire to go to the Wall. “Eventually, I’ll find you.”

“Will you really.” He says distantly, mind spinning. 

“You’re my brother.” Sansa tells him, looking up at him through her lashes, and her blue eyes seem paler than usual. “I’ll never leave you to fight alone.”

“Sansa, you can’t fight.” Jon protests, frowning at her, but there’s a gleam in her eyes he hasn’t seen much of. 

She looks almost smug.

“Not yet. But I will.” She says with quiet confidence. 

He can’t help but believe her.

He also can’t help but realize there’s a lot more in common between her and Arya than he’d thought.

* * *

 

He teaches Arya to fight, when no one’s looking.

Catelyn catches him once and the scolding she gives him is legendary, but it doesn’t stop him.

“Valar Morghulis.” He murmurs Sansa’s past words, and vows that Arya won’t meet that fate. He, Robb, and Theon all train together, but in the background, when everyone’s gone to sleep or is away on a hunt, he teaches Arya.

Sometimes, Sansa watches over them and smiles.

It makes him feel like he’s doing the right thing.

 

* * *

 

It isn’t that Sansa’s insane.

Really, she’s like any normal girl her age. She learns from the Septa, learns how to be womanly and all the skills a woman should have. She’s just strange sometimes, and usually, it has her smiling.

It’s just that sometimes she seems to know more than she should. Much, much more.

“You want to leave us.” Sansa says by way of hello, accosting him on the balcony overlooking the training grounds. Theon and Robb are practicing below, but there’s a visitor from Bear Island to speak to father, so he’s not  _ permitted  _ to be in the public spaces.

“I don’t.” Jon says and it’s mostly true. He doesn’t  _ want _ to leave - but sometimes, he wonders if he should.

“You ought to.” Sansa tells him, making him blink. A faint tickle of hurt washes away almost immediately, because this is  _ Sansa. _ He’s the only one who listens to her without judgement, even if it sometimes hurts. “You’ll only die if you stay here.”

“Die?” Jon echoes, brow furrowing, and he looks sideways at her. “Who would kill me?”

“The burner of children.” Sansa explains, gaze fixed not on him but down below. He follows her stare until it meets Theon, ducking under Robb’s thrust and dancing laughingly to the side.

“He’s never harmed a child.”

“Not yet.” Sansa agrees. “Maybe never. Maybe soon.”

“How soon?” Jon asks, watching Theon playfully tap his sword against Robb’s shoulder, and then hastily retreating from the furious backlash. 

“Mmm.” Sansa hums noncommittally, falling silent. After several minutes of listening to the clashing of dull sword on dull sword, she speaks up again. “Mother thinks I’m witless.”

“What?” Jon asks sharply, out of both surprise and anger, because that’s the furthest from the truth. Sansa’s strange, he won’t deny that, but she’s far from  _ witless. _ Her very problem is that she seems to know far too  _ much,  _ not too little. 

“I heard her and father speaking. He’s arranged a marriage, you see, and mother thinks he’s deceived my betrothed.” Sansa explains, sounding oddly amused. “I’m to marry the heir to the throne.”

Jon freezes for a second, gaze locked on her wryly twisted lips, and tries to find it in him to respond. “Joffrey Baratheon?” he eventually manages to ask.

“The very same.” She says, lips quirking.

“You seem strange. Are you… alright with this?”

“I’m overjoyed.” Sansa assures him, but it sounds like a joke. “All my dreams are coming true.”

He’s not sure what the joke is, but her barely suppressed mirth has his own lips twitching in response. After a moment, she bursts out with her laughter, and there’s no stopping his laughing in return.

Sometimes she looks like she’ll never smile again. Sometimes, like these, she seems so carefree that it washes away all those other times.

“Oh, I miss this.” Sansa says, smiling brilliantly at him. “I miss the laughter. We never get the chance anymore. I’m always so  _ busy.” _

“You’re learning important things, same as me.” Jon points out and Sansa rolls her eyes.

“Knitting has hardly been important to my life, Jon.”

“It might one day be!”

Her laughter is bright and very well deserved. He smiles warmly at her and she smiles back.

Sometimes, she looks like she’ll never smile again.

Sometimes, she lights up so bright it’s blinding.

* * *

 

It’s a year after that that they arrive.

The King and his choir of children, the Queen silently shepherding them with a face like she’s just sucked on a lemon. “It’s an honor.” Ned murmurs in greeting.

Sansa’s smile for her betrothed are sweet, almost sickly so, and Jon watches with some trepidation.

It becomes obvious the longer he watches that she is not as happy as she appears. It might seem that way to everyone else, but not to him. He knows her too well for that. “You don’t want this marriage.” He murmurs to her, when they walk through the Godswood that evening. Her hands wrap around his arm, walking steadily at his side. 

She just offers a quiet, noncommittal hum like she’s so fond of. “You should be pleased. You’re getting your wish, aren’t you?” Sansa asks as they approach the Weirwood tree. “Uncle Benjen is your ticket to the Wall.”

“I’m not certain I want to go anymore.” Jon admits quietly to his sister.

Her reaction is immediate, and far beyond what he’d expected. Her skin loses it’s color, her eyes flying wide, and the blue coloring almost seems to pale along with her skin.

“What? You have to!” She protests, hand snapping out to grab at his arm. He’s taken aback at the sudden move, almost stumbling to a stop. Her grip is so hard his arm aches and her knuckles turn white. “You have to go, Jon. Yours is the song of ice and fire - you  _ must _ go.”

“Song?” Jon echoes incredulously, torn between concern and dismay at her sudden change in attitude. He’s never seen it so bad before.

“The song, Jon. You are the ice to her fire - but you’ll never meet her if you don’t go.”

“Her?” He questions, blinking at her. “There are no women on the Wall.”

“You  _ must go.” _ Sansa insists, pushing at his arm, but she pulls it closer almost an instant later. Her skin becomes pasty white, lips thinning, and after a moment, she releases him. “Just as I must go.” Sansa says quietly, almost unheard by his ears. Red draws his attention to her nose, and it’s his turn to pale as blood runs down in thin, twin rivulets. 

“Sansa.” He says in alarm, hands rising, and he wipes the blood away with his thumbs. It smears it across her pale, white face, cold under his touch. “You’re chilled.” He murmurs, her grip going loose on his arm. “Come. We must get you inside. The maester needs to see to you.”

“I’m alright.” She says quietly, but doesn’t protest as he draws her away from the Godswood. 

He tries not to think about how similar to the tree she looks in that moment: skin as white as it’s bark, blood as red as it’s sap.

He tries not to think about it.

It sends a shiver down his spine anyways.

 

* * *

The maester ushers Sansa to bed immediately, and Jon ignores the way Catelyn glares at him as she worries over her daughter. She switches between shooting Jon angered looks and her daughter concerned ones, holding one hand between her two. Jon knows the hand is as inexplicably cold as Sansa looks.

The bleeding has long stopped by the time Sansa finally drifts away, and Catelyn immediately springs at Jon. “What did she tell you?” Catelyn demands, low and furious, and Jon winces a bit at her voice.

“She told me to go with Uncle Benjen. That my place is on the Wall.” He says, adjusting the story a bit, and Catelyn relaxes, the look in her eyes hardening.

“Good. That’s where you belong.” She says coldly and Jon looks away, over to Sansa. Somehow, it’s easier to look at his half-dead sister than her mother. “Leave.” Catelyn commands. “You’ve done enough.”

Jon doesn’t say anything, simply turning and leaving, but his mind wanders as he goes.

The song of ice and fire, she’d said.

He’d heard that phrase before. He  _ knows it. _

 

* * *

 

It isn’t until dinner the next night that he sees Sansa again, and already she looks back to normal. She sweeps into the dining room like she’s dancing with the air, a beaming smile on her face. “You look cheerful,” Father notes curiously, looking to his daughter as she sits at his side. 

“I dreamt of my wedding.” She explains, and while Catelyn goes tense, Ned softens at her words.

“Did you?” He asks fondly. “Was it lovely?”

“Very. And so will be the man I marry.” Sansa says with certainty.

_ Either she’s confused, or she isn’t marrying Joffrey, _ Jon can’t help but think.

“That’s enough.” Catelyn cuts in quietly.

“Cat.” Ned responds, his lips twisting from a faint smile to a dark frown. Jon goes still, gaze darting between the two, and Theon and Robb go silent at his side. 

Catelyn freezes for a moment before looking at father. “Ned.” She returns coldly.

“That’s enough.” Ned echoes her earlier words and Catelyn’s hands shake she’s gripping the silverware so tight. “She’s fine.”

“You-” Catelyn cuts herself off, staring hard at Ned for a long minute. The smile is dying from Sansa’s lips, her expression turning concerned.

After a long, tense moment of silence, Catelyn stands up and throws her napkin on her plate. She leaves the room without a word.

After several seconds, Ned looks at Sansa and softens again. “Tell me more about this wedding.” He says, reaching out to take her free hand, the other one stilling mid-way through spearing another mouthful with her fork.

Her smile is beautiful, but tinged with sorrow.

Sometimes he wonders if anything she does  _ isn’t _ sad.

“Well he’s an unconventional man, father. But he’ll treat me well. Better than anyone else in King's Landing  _ combined. _ ” 

The word ‘man’ has Jon exchanging a small frown with Robb. She’s set to marry Joffrey, a boy - a  _ youth _ at best. Not a man. Not something that could be confused with a man.

And Joffrey, Jon knows by now, would not treat her well.

He’s not sure if he’s relieved, or just more confused.

Maybe he’s both.

* * *

 

They’re well on their way when the Kingsroad splits. The company continues on to the left, but those headed for the Night’s Watch go right instead. Ned pulls his horse to a stop between the crossroads and Jon stops beside him. “There’s great honor serving in the Night’s Watch.” Father tells him. “The Starks have manned the Wall for thousands of years. And you are a Stark.” He says very, very firmly. “You might not have my name, but you have my blood.”

Jon hesitates for a moment, looking away from his father and his severe expression, before he swallows deeply and speaks. “Is my mother alive?” He asks, unable to look his father in the eye. He knows the rejection that’s coming. He’s received it before. “Does she know about me? Where I am, where I’m going?” He pauses, then forces himself to look at Ned - but the man isn’t looking at him, either. “Does she care?”

Ned wets his lips, a strange anxiety to his features, before looking at Jon. “The next time we see each other, we’ll talk about your mother, hm?” He murmurs, grief trickling into his eyes. “I promise.” 

There’s nothing Jon can do but nod, accepting what little he can get. 

If nothing else, his father always keeps his promises.

Ned turns to guide his horse away, but before Jon can go anywhere, a familiar red head steps up beside him. Jon blinks down at Sansa, who blinks back up at him. “You’re supposed to be in the wheelhouse.” Jon tells the nearly ten and two year old girl.

“I snuck out. Arya helped.” Sansa explains, and he can tell from her tone that she’s about to have one of her moments. He looks over to see Uncle Benjen waiting with a hint of impatience and curiosity. The others were some ways ahead, but also waiting. “You gave her a sword.”

“I did.” Jon admits quietly so no one overhears.

“You didn’t give me one.”

“Did you want one?” Jon asks, blinking in surprise. The girl is about as girly as any girl can be - the idea of her holding a sword is silly, but her expression is severe. 

“I’ll need one.”

A chill runs down his spine at that. “What do you mean? You’ll be safe with father.”

“Yes. I will be.” Sansa confirms, looking past him and over to Benjen. Her sight goes distant, like she’s seeing a new world beyond what he can touch. It’s always made him feel strange to witness. “I won’t see you for years, Jon.”

“I’m not surprised. But we will see each other again.” Jon tries to remind her brightly, but the forced tone goes right over her head.

“I’ll miss you.” Sansa says, and turns to look at him again, her expression strange. “You should know. Your mother, she would be proud of you.” She says, ice running through his veins at that. “Very proud. Father is, too.” 

Jon stares at her silently, shellshocked, and Sansa’s name is called from the left road. Sansa looks over, her piercing gaze averted, before locking on him once more. 

“I’ll see you at the Wall, Jon. One day. After you’ve tasted fire and felt its devastation.” Sansa says grimly. “One day,” She repeats, then turns. Her hair looks like fire as it sweeps behind her, dress following her in a twirl around her ankles. 

And just as suddenly as she’d shaken his world, she leaves it again.

For how long, he doesn’t know.

 

But she does.


	2. Chapter 2

 

Tyrion’s first opinion on Sansa is simple.

They got conned.

“She spends half her days trapped in her own mind.” Jaime says with a small frown. She’s dancing in Winterfell’s feast hall when he makes the comment. Cersei snorts softly, but Robert is too far away to hear, thankfully. Cersei watches the girl disdainfully, Ned watches her with fatherly fondness, and Tyrion just  _ watches. _

“Do you think any of it is an act?” Jaime asks when they’re on the road, approaching the fork that would separate them.

“I think she’s a lovely girl.” Tyrion says, which is true enough. 

“You only say that because she’s kind to you.” Jaime huffs and Tyrion can’t really deny that.

“That just means she’s smart, too.” He jests, making Jaime grin at him and nudge him playfully. “Alright, alright,” Tyrion concedes, “she’s strange in the head. But I don’t think it’s a bad thing. If anything, it makes her more interesting.”

“Interesting? Some would say you’re interesting for being a dwarf.”

“ _ Intriguing. _ ” Tyrion huffs. “She’s  _ intriguing. _ Have you heard her speak to the bastard?”

“Jon Snow?” Jai me clarifies and he nods. “No. I haven’t. Why?”

“She talks to hi m differently than any of us. Ned, too. She talks in riddles.”

“You’ll get along excellently then.” Jaime jests and Tyrion snorts softly, drinking wine from his flask.

“Perhaps. But she’s too smart to spend time with the dreadful  _ halfling.” _ Tyrion dramatically laments.

“Shut up, Tyrion.” Jaime complains. “Your lack of self worth will rub off on someone.”

“If that were possible, you’d be infected years ago.” Tyrion fires back, then acts like he’s intently inspecting Jaime. The man smiles at his brother, amused, and at times like these, Tyrion can almost forget the kind of man his brother can be.

The kind of man who pushes children out of towers. 

It’s three days into their journey, one day away from the fork, that Sansa speaks to Tyrion.

He’s waiting for his horse to finish getting readied for him when she steps up, long red hair glowing like fire in the sunlight. It’s diminished by the gentle blue dress she wears, which makes her eyes look dark. 

“You’ll be a wonderful man one day, my lord.” She says by way of hello.

He pauses to consider how much he’s had to drink, then disregards that as the reason for the strange words. “You imply I’m not a wonderful man right now. That’s very rude of you.” He tips his flask at her before drinking more. She smiles softly, which simply isn’t fair of her. She’s pretty enough without her actually laughing at his jokes. “You shouldn’t smile at me, little Stark. What would your mother think?” He asks, and the smile falters a tiny bit before hardening in place.

“I don’t care what she’d think. I can think for myself.” 

“Your smile.” Tyrion points out with a frown. “It wavered. You doubt yourself.”

“I don’t. I just know I won’t see my mother again.”

“Sure you will. At the least, she’ll come to your wedding.” Tyrion scoffs lightly.

“She won’t.” 

“How can you be so sure?” He questions, arching a brow at her, and she smiles.

“Because I know these things.”

“‘These things’?” He frowns. “Tell me more about ‘these things’ you know.”

“Certainly not.” Sansa rejects but lightheartedly. She tosses her hair, the sun catching on the red locks, and Tyrion can’t help but watch.

She’s young now, not even ten and two, but she already has the makings of a beautiful woman one day. 

“Certainly yes.” Tyrion counters smoothly, tipping his flask at her before spreading his arms out invitingly. “Share with me, little Stark, what it is you know so well.”

“Mother says you have a fondness for whores.” Sansa notes and he blinks his odd-colored eyes, unimpressed. “You shouldn’t. They’ll betray you one day, always.” Her voice goes strangely severe as she says this, utterly confident, and sad as well.

“...Well, you aren’t the first to tell me that.” Tyrion says slowly, uneasy with her intense stare. “Tell me something I  _ don’t _ know.”

“Alright.” Sansa frowns at him, contemplative for a long minute. Her severe stare lasts, and after a moment, she bows her head to him in farewell. “Don’t trust Shae. Her loyalty lies with a higher lion than yourself.”

With that, she turns and leaves, Tyrion watching her go with rapidly blinking eyes.

“...Who in the seven hells is Shae?”

 

* * *

 

Tyrion can’t help but be intrigued by the girl. “You are always attracted to things as strange as yourself,” Jaime had told him once, and he certainly wasn’t wrong. He dares to interact with things and people that no one else would, and it’s rarely proven to be a bad move. 

So he watches Sansa on the road. Watches her sneak away from the wheelhouse to see her bastard brother off. He watches the way their expressions change as they speak, and when they’re done, he’s curious enough to spark a conversation with Jon Snow. “Your sister seems a strange sort.” Tyrion notes when they’ve settled in for the night, camping with rapers in binds. Rapers who had chosen the Wall over being castrated.

The kind too fond of their own cock to realize they’ll never be able to use it again anyways.

“That’s rich, coming from you.” Jon says coolly, any amicable feelings vanishing like smoke in the wind.

“I mean no offense.” Tyrion says sincerely. “I merely mean to observe. The girl is strange.” He pauses for a moment, weighing his options before speaking again. “She told me to beware of a whore named Shae.” At least, from the contents of their conversation, he  _ assumes _ this mysterious Shae is a whore. “I’ve never met such a woman.”

Jon goes still at this, his mind clearly working behind shadowed eyes, and it’s a long silence before he breaks it. “She does that often. Predicts things that aren’t obvious. Things that are obscure and strange.”

“A seer, then?” Tyrion’s lips quirk a bit at the idea, but Jon’s expression is serious as he looks into the campfire.

“The things she says come true, always, and sometimes in the strangest ways.” He looks up and his gaze is burning as he matches Tyrion’s stare. “You should listen to her. She’s never been wrong yet.”

Tyrion considers that for a moment, considers the severity in his expression, and wonders what else the girl has ‘predicted’.

 

* * *

 

It takes months for him to be reminded of Jon and Sansa’s words. 

Months of hell, really.

First he finds himself captured by Catelyn Stark and dragged off to the Eyrie. Then he finds himself jailed in the world’s worst cell, one wall simply missing and leaving him exposed to the  _ great outdoors. _

Bronn saves his life and escorts him away, where he finds himself meeting a Hill Tribe, and is forced to quickly talk his way out of what would be a likely gruesome death.

Then, finally, his own father welcomes him home by sending him to the front lines with his new friends.

“Be ready to die,” He tells Bronn, toasting mockingly to the man. “We’ll be at the vanguard tomorrow.” He says, then nods to the whore waiting in his tent. She’s beautiful, pale, flawless skin and dark flowing hair. “Where’d you find this one?” He asks and Bronn shrugs a shoulder.

“I took her from some ginger cunt three tents down. Thought you might like the surprise.”

“Oh, I do.” Tyrion promises, eyeing the woman slowly. “And who are you?” He asks, curious.

“Who do y ou want me to be?” She asks lightly and he smiles a bit in spite of himself.

“What did your mother call you?”

“Shae.” She says in the same tone, and something goes cold inside his chest.

“Shae?” He echoes, voice distant to his own ears, and whatever she says in response goes over his head as he sips on his wine.

_ You should listen to her, _ Jon Snow had said, and while the boy was a bastard, he wasn’t stupid.  _ She’s never been wrong yet. _

“Bronn.” Tyrion says, as much as it pains him, and the man looks at him questioningly. “Take her. A token of my gratitude.”

Bronn’s face lights up and Shae smiles at the man, not looking remotely disappointed by the change in partners.

If she were sent to him by his father, she should look unhappy - but she seems fine, and that makes Tyrion wonder if he didn’t just make a terrible mistake.

He watches them leave the tent, watches the way her hips sway, and swallows a mouthful of wine.

“I must be losing my mind.” He sighs heavily.

 

* * *

 

Inexplicably, he survives the battle. 

Even more inexplicably, his father names him Hand of the King in his stead. “You will bring that boy king to heel, and his mother too if needs be. And if you get so much as a whiff of treason from any of the rest, Baelish, Varys, Pycelle-”

“Heads, spikes, walls.” Tyrion summarized for his father. “Why not my uncle? Why not anyone? Why me?” He’d asked.

“You’re my son.” Tywin had responded, inexplicably. 

And so Tyrion left the battlefield, heading to the Capital with Bronn at his side. 

It’s in the Capital that he meets Sansa again.  _ King _ Joffrey has her stuck at his side as they celebrate his name day, and Tyrion arrives just in time for the celebrations. Not that he joins them - no, he has actual work to do for once, and he actually bows out of the excuse to drink. But not before he fixes Sansa with a serious look and says, genuinely, “My lady, I am so sorry for your loss.”

Sansa offers him a tiny, weak little smile, which Joffrey luckily doesn’t notice as he’s too busy whipping around to look at Tyrion. “Her  _ loss?” _ He demands sharply. “Her father was a confessed traitor.”

_Confessed? More likely coerced,_ Tyrion thinks before he says, coldly, “But still her father. Surely having so recently lost your own _beloved_ _father,_ you can sympathize.”

Joffrey stares at him for a long, hard second, before he looks expectantly at Sansa. The girl immediately lifts her head and looks at Tyrion, any hint of her tiny smile gone. “My father was a traitor.” She says severely. “My mother and brother are traitors, too.” She adds, so convincingly that Tyrion would actually believe her if she hadn’t offered him that smile. Sansa turns her gaze to Joffrey, smiling softly at him. “I am loyal to my beloved Joffrey.”

He scoffs quietly, ignoring the beautiful girl offering him such a look, and looks back to Tyrion triumphantly. “Of course you are.” Tyrion says, impressed in spite of himself. Then he pauses, takes a deep drink from one of the wine goblets before them, and sighs. “Well, enjoy your name day, Your Grace.” He says, turning to walk past him. “Wish I could stay and celebrate, but there is work to be done.”

Sansa’s hand brushes briefly against his as he passes, just the faintest, most innocent of touches, but Tyrion understands the message nonetheless.

She’s not the simple girl she’s pretending to be.

* * *

 

 

He intends to speak to her at some point. He doesn’t expect her to be the one to seek  _ him _ out after a particularly horrid day.

_ “You remember? Back when you ripped my mother open on your way out of her and she bled to death?” _ Cersei’s words echo in his mind as he swishes his wine in it’s glass. He watches the candlelight glint off the red, swirling liquid.  _ “Mother gone… for the sake of  _ **_you_ ** _. There’s no bigger joke in the world than that.” _

He lifts the cup, taking a deep mouthful, and stares out his window. 

The gentle knock on his door startles him. “Come in.” Tyrion beckons, turning to greet whatever mess he has to face now, only to pause in surprise when he sees who stand there.

Sansa Stark, still dressed for court, her hair done up in ridiculously extravagant braids. 

“Lady Stark.” Tyrion greets, bowing his head a bit. “What bring you up here at this indecent hour?”

“I was concerned.” Sansa explains, closing the door quietly behind her. “This day has been a rather difficult one for you, hasn’t it?”

“All days are difficult for people like me. And you, I imagine.” Tyrion notes, silently moving to pour her a glass of wine. She takes it with a small smile.

She’s ten and two, now. Nearly ten and three. Painfully young, but so utterly beautiful that he can’t help but admire it. She’s tall for her age, with a grace to her that it had taken Cersei years to perfect. 

Far too young for him, but still beautiful. 

She silently takes the glass from him, sipping at it delicately. She’s pale, he can’t help but notice, a small tremor to her hands as she holds the goblet. “Are you well?”

“Hardly.” Sansa admits, smiling at him like she’s too touched by his concern to care about  _ why _ he’s concerned. “My King was displeased with me today.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Sansa.” He says quietly, then pauses. “May I call you Sansa?”

“You may.”

“You sh ouldn’t be here.” Tyrion warns her but makes no move to escort her away. “It’s late. Almost indecently so.”

“Almost.” Sansa says lightly, a twinkle in her eyes, and Tyrion can’t help but quirk his lips a bit.

Beautiful and funny, it seems. It makes her youth even more tragic to him. “What did you do to displease him?”

“I spilled wine on his favorite tunic. A terrible mistake, really.” Sansa says, but the lightness is still in her voice.

He freezes for a second, knowing Joffrey well enough by now to be concerned about his reaction to that. Her smile turns a little bit sad, expression knowing, and she softens her gaze. 

“Sansa. Did he hurt you?” He asks quietly, tension flowing through him, and her expression doesn’t change.

“My lord, he hurts me every day.”

_ The Mad King, _ he can’t help but think.  _ In a few years, perhaps we’ll remember them as the Mad Kings.  _

“I am sorry, Sansa.” Tyrion says sincerely, looking her seriously, and her smile grows a bit. “I promise you that I will do everything in my power to stop this.”

“Thank you my lord, but it doesn’t matter.”

“It matters.”

“Not to me.” 

“It ought to.”

“I’ve been hurt far, far worse than this, my lord.” Sansa murmurs, her voice going softer than ever. There’s a sweet sorrow to her tone, like a terrible grief she’s grown to accept, and Tyrion stares at her intently.

“Who hurt you?” He asks quietly.

“They believe that I’m insane.” Sansa says suddenly, sipping her wine. “That I have lost my wits. Some even think that I speak with a witch’s tongue.” She looks down at her wine, skin losing what little color it had, and Tyrion bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from speaking. She looks up, blue eyes pale as they burn into his. “I’ve lost my mind, Lord Tyrion, but I have not lost my wits.”

“No.” Tyrion says, distant to his own ears. “No, you have not.”

“You listened to me, didn’t you? You didn’t trust her?”

“I didn’t. She’s gone, now.”

“Good. She would have betrayed you. You would have been forced to kill someone you loved very dearly.”

“I don’t love anyone dearly.”

“You would have.” Sansa says quietly. “You will, one day, I suspect.” She reaches up to touch her cheek, hand trembling, and a bit of red draws his eyes to her nose. 

“Sansa,” He says sharply, reaching for the nearest cloth. She takes it shakily, fingers brushing his, and dabs lightly at her nose. “You need to rest. You’re unwell.” Tyrion moves towards the door, but her hand touches his arm, and he freezes. 

“Don’t.” Sansa pleads softly. “Let me stay a little longer. Let us talk, while I still have the courage to speak.”

Tyrion stays frozen for several seconds longer, uncertain, before stepping back from her. “Impossible.” He decides, taking in her relieved expression. “I can’t imagine you ever losing your courage.”

She smiles even as the cloth to her face starts to turn red. “Thank you, Lord Tyrion.”

“Just Tyrion, Sansa. Please.”

“May I sit?”

“Please.”

Sansa sits down delicately, holding the cloth to her nose, only occasionally pulling it back to see if it’s still bleeding. 

It is.

Tyrion watches her intently, something in him softening in her presence. 

She’s such an innocent child, an unfairly tormented girl, and it makes him want to protect her.

But there’s no way for him to do that.

All he can do is let her sit there and talk, well past propriety and all the way until the morning.

* * *

 

Robb Stark is winning the war.

Sansa Stark is paying for it.

“What is the meaning of this?!” Tyrion demands, and for someone so small, he bellows loud enough to silence the room. Ser Meryn, sword raised to strike Sansa again, pauses for a moment.

Sansa clutches the remains of her dress to her body, shoulders shaking, but no sound leaves her even as red streaks appear down her exposed back.

How many blows had she taken, he wonders.

How many, yet she remains quiet.

“What kind of a knight beats a helpless girl?” Tyrion demands, marching up to Ser Meryn and just past Sansa. The knight sneers at him. 

“The kind who serves his king,  _ Imp.” _ Ser Meryn spits.

“Careful now,” Bronn warns mildly, “We don’t want to get blood all over your pretty white cloak.”

“Someone get the girl something to cover herself with.” Tyrion commands, stepping next to the girl. She’s doubled over, welts already appearing all over her back. He steps forward, glaring at Joffrey. “She is to be your  _ queen.” _ He reminds the boy icily. “Have you no regard for her honor?” 

“I’m punishing her!” Joffrey protests.

“For what crimes? She did not fight her brother’s battle, you half-wit.”

“You can’t talk to me like that! The king can do as he likes!”

“The Mad King did as he liked.” Tyrion fires back as Joffrey turns to perch on the world’s ugliest throne. “Has your Uncle Jaime ever told you what happened to him?”

“No one threatens His Grace in the presence of the Kingsguard.” Ser Meryn spits furiously. 

“I’m not threatening the king, ser, I’m educating my nephew. Bronn, the next time Ser Meryn speaks, kill him.” Tyrion says, pausing for a split second before proclaiming, “ _ That _ was a threat. See the difference?” He turns around without waiting for a response, approaching Sansa slowly. The Hound had removed his cloak and it was now draped over the girl, clutched to her chest.

Her expression is blank when Tyrion offers her his hand, but after a moment, she reaches out and takes it. “I apologize for my nephew’s behavior.” He says softly, for her ears only. “Tell me the truth. Do you want an end to this engagement?”

Silence is all that meets him.

He doesn’t press, escorting her and her handmaidens back to her room, and when Sansa casts one last look at him, he can see the empty blankness in her expression.

 

* * *

 

It’s three days after that that he walks into his rooms and freezes. 

“You are not supposed to be in here.” Tyrion tells Sansa, who is helping herself to some of his wine. She’s perched at his table like she’s meant to be there, calm and relaxed, and she smiles at his words. 

“But I am anyways.”

He closes the door behind him, frowning at her. “This is indecent of you. You know what rumors will start if you’re caught in here.”

“I won’t be.” Sansa says with utter confidence. He has half a mind to ask how she knows that, but she distracts him by offering him a glass of wine. He takes it, sitting across the table from her. 

“I have something to talk to you about, Lord Tyrion.”

“Just Tyrion, Sansa.” He reminds her and she smiles.

“Tyrion.” She corrects, her voice sweet as music as she does.

“Tell me first - how do you fare? Are your wounds healing?” He asks, recalling the welts on her back.

Her smile is warm but bitter all the same. “They fare as well as can be expected.”

“You told me before that he hurts you every day.”

“He never does. But his  _ knights _ do.” She says quietly, a strange expression on her face.

She looks… lost. Lost and alone, and that stirs something deep inside him.

He’s always been the kindest of his siblings - always understood the misery and pain of others. Jaime could be kind, but he was still riding on a high horse, while Tyrion was trapped in the muck.

He’s always been the kindest, and his occasional urge to help others has caused him more pain than anything else - but once again, he feels the desire.

“Sansa.” He says before he can think to regret it. His hand reaches across the table to grasp hers, cold and pale against his warm and tanned one. “Tell me what I can do to help you.”

“Unless you can get me out of King’s Landing, you’re already doing everything you can to help me.” He frowns a little at that and she smiles sadly. “You listen to me without condemnation, Tyrion. Few others do that. Few others will ever do that.”

“You’re a strange girl, Sansa Stark, I won’t deny that.” Her hand tightens around his for a moment, her smile widening, and something goes soft inside him. “You don’t need to fear hatred from me, my lady.”

“It’s not hatred that I fear.” Sansa says, playing with the rim of her glass. She stares intently down at the swirling wine, expression going strange. “I fear the fear of others.”

“You don’t want to be feared?” He elaborates and she nods. “Do people fear you?”

The idea is laughable. She’s so small, so fragile. A girl made of porcelain. He doubts she’s ever hurt so much as a fly.

“They fear my words.” She says, and that makes more sense to him.

“You speak strangely, I won’t deny that.”

“And you speak lightly.” Sansa counters, a thin but genuine smile pulling at her lips. It lasts only a moment before they fall into tense silence. “Tyrion. If I told you that I wouldn’t be marrying the king, would you believe me?”

Tyrion blinks at her, considering that for a moment. “Yes.”

“If I told you that that’s because Margaery Tyrell will replace me as his bride, would you still believe me?”

His brow furrows, cup of wine lowering so he can look at her more clearly. Her expression is severe, gaze unwavering, and he frowns at her. “Why do you believe that?”

“I  _ know _ that.”

“Margaery Tyrell is currently betrothed to Renly Baratheon.”

“Renly Baratheon is going to die sometime in the next three days. The Tyrells will flee and pledge themselves to Joffrey. Margaery will manipulate the boy into loving her, and I will be cast aside to the next buyer.” 

“No one will buy you, Sansa.” Tyrion says, but the words aren’t meant to be reassuring. “You will still be our king’s prisoner.”

“Yes. I will be. Which is why the Tyrells will fail to sell me to Loras.” Tyrion’s nose wrinkles and Sansa smiles at that. “Yes, I agree.”

“A sham marriage of all sham marriages.” He muses and Sansa laughs.

The sound is bright and genuine, with a hint of husk to it that he knows comes from her pain. He can only imagine what her body looks like under those dresses - and not in the way he usually likes to imagine. Instead of imagining nakedness, he imagines bruises, cuts, and vicious welts.

Her skin is cold and white like porcelain, but it would be red and hot around her wounds. 

“Yes, yes, you are quite right, my lord.”

“Tyrio n.” He corrects her automatically and her smile softens.

“Tyrion.” She agrees again. “My lord Tyrion, hm?”

He sighs and she laughs again, just briefly. 

“Perhaps I’ll get lucky.” Sansa says suddenly, her smile strange. “And I’ll be able to wed a man like you, my lord.”

“No one will wed me, Sansa - not even you.”

“You underestimate my betrothed’s sense of humor.” She says, sipping at her wine, but the glass doesn’t quite hide her mischievous smile.

 

He’s not sure what the joke is exactly, but he can’t help but smile back.

 

 

* * *

 


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

 

 

 

Sansa Stark lived once before. It hadn’t been a pretty life, but it had been a life.

The last thing she’d wanted was to live one again.

A life where she’d had a childhood full of innocence, and the rest of her life full of darkness.

She’d had everything, and then she lost it all and more.

She remembers her family dying. She remembers those who had tried to help her. She remembers those who had succeeded in using her.

She remembers them dying.

Each and every one of them dying.

Some died to the war. Some died from betrayal.

Most of them died to the winter, and what the winter brought with it.

White Walkers in the snow. Sansa remembers them the most.

She remembers being in Winterfell, the last stronghold of the living North. She remembers Jon, wielding Longclaw and killing the already dead.

And then, eventually, she remembers him dying too.

She remembers holding him, sobbing and clawing at his chest, begging him to breathe - to just _breathe, please Jon, please._

And then she remembers fire.

“You should go south.” Jon had told her.

She’d refused to leave his side.

“You should go south,” Bran had told her.

She refused.

“Go south.” Arya had said.

She stayed where she was.

She stayed, and she watched her family fall one by one to the long winter.

She stayed until there was nothing left but ice and death.

“I’m sorry,” She breathed her last, hovering over Jon’s emptily staring eyes, before hands grab her and drag her to the fire.

Jon had fought with every last inch of his body. Sansa had fought with none.

They died just the same. Her body collapsing over his.

She remembers that he still felt warm.

 _Forgive me, Jon._ Sansa had thought. _Forgive me, father._

And then she’d woken up - a broken mind trapped in a child’s body - and vowed to make things change.

 

* * *

 

It had been Tyrion’s idea to send Myrcella to Dorne, for her own protection.

He hadn’t thought about _their_ protection.

The trip back to the Red Keep is perilous and chaotic, many lives lost as the _king_ orders his guards to kill every citizen around them.

The worst part about it is when they’re safe and secured, and Tyrion suddenly realizes who is missing. “Where is Sansa?” He demands, and only the Hound cares enough to actually go searching for her.

When she returns to them, her expression is blank and flat, her gentle voice silenced, and there are cuts on her inner thighs. He leaves her with a maester, just to be sure she’s safe and untouched, and when the maester gives his leave, Tyrion walks into her bedchambers.

“Leave us.” He commands her handmaidens.

They look a little scandalized, a little confused, and a little worried as they obey, flocking past him and out of the room. Sansa’s sitting on the bed, staring down at her hands, and he walks up to her and takes them in his. “Lady Sansa, are you alright?” He asks quietly.

It’s a stupid question, but her blue, red-rimmed eyes dart up to his. She swallows thickly. “Yes.” She murmurs hoarsely. “I went away.”

Tyrion’s brow furrows slightly before it smooths out in understanding.

His brother had often said that when asked how he’d handled things. _I went away inside,_ Jaime would say.

“Good.” Tyrion says blankly, thumb rubbing over her knuckles.

They stay there like that, in silence, until she breaks it.

“Sometimes I wonder if I can change anything at all.”

“What do you mean?”

“I know things, Tyrion.” Sansa says quietly, staring at their hands. “I know everything. But what can I change?”

He’s not sure how to respond to that for a long moment. Knows everything? How could that be possible?

But Jon Snow had told him to listen to her.

That she was never wrong.

Now she sounds as though she thinks she’s never been right.

“Sansa,” Tyrion starts, uncertain, “what could you have done to change this?”

She blinks damp lashes, still staring at the hands he holds gently. “I don’t know.”

“Then how could you change it? Sometimes we simply can’t know how to do something, Sansa. Sometimes they happen without warning, or without _enough_ warning. Perhaps you knew this would happen - but how could you know how to stop it?”

She swallows thickly, looking up at him. “You’re right. But I tried.”

“And you failed. That’s not your fault. It’s the fault of those men who insisted on doing what they did regardless of your efforts.”

This draws a tiny smile to her face, weak and faltering as it is.

“I need to do more.” Sansa says quietly and he doesn’t necessarily agree - not if this is what failure does to her - but he doesn’t say it aloud.

Instead he runs his thumb over her knuckles one more time before pulling his hands back. He shouldn’t be touching her like that - it isn’t his place. “I should go.”

“Yes.” Sansa agrees, sighing tiredly. “I need to rest.” She says and it feels like an understatement. She’s pale as a ghost, and it makes the red around her eyes stand out even worse.

“Yes, rest, Sansa.” Tyrion murmurs, turning and heading for the door.

He can’t help but feel he should do more for the girl, but he’s so very limited.

 

* * *

 

 

The Battle of the Blackwater is something that will go down in history for its tactical stratagems.

It’s also a battle that scars Tyrion for life.

He wakes up one day whole and hale, and the next he wakes up with a vicious scar carving his face, chunking his nose. It’s hideous and agonizing.

Bronn laughs at him for it.

Tywin mocks him for it.

Sansa smiles gently and helps him clean it.

 

* * *

 

It takes two weeks before that Renly Baratheon dies.

It’s two weeks after that the Tyrells arrive in King’s Landing.

“She plays him like a fiddle.” Tyrion tells Sansa. They’re meeting in a different way than usual. Instead of her sneaking into his rooms at indecent hours, they’re out in the open, walking through the rose gardens.

It seems ironic to be surrounded by roses while speaking ill of the Tyrells.

“My betrothed fancies himself in love. It’s strange. I hadn’t thought him capable.” Sansa muses and Tyrion chuckles quietly. They’re speaking in low tones, but Tyrion knows to be careful with his words regardless.

Varys has spies everywhere, the little spider that he is.

“He does seem rather besotted.” Tyrion agrees. Bronn, several feet behind them, snorts softly at that.

They’d tried sending him whores once. The results had been… rather awful.

He wonders if Joffrey treats Sansa the same way he treated them.

Judging by how carefully she walks at his side, a stiffness to her spine, he believes he does.

“How do you like the gardens?” Tyrion asks, stumbling for something to take his mind off that idea.

“They’re wonderful, as always.” Sansa says, reaching out to touch a pink rose as she does. It matches the color of her dress. “Thank you for inviting me to lunch, Lord Tyrion.”

“Of course, Lady Sansa.” He returns mildly. A faint hint of amusement pulls at her lips and he smiles warmly at her.

“Winter roses.” Sansa murmurs as they approach a row of them. She pauses to touch them, fingers gliding over the silky petals, and Tyrion watches her with some trepidation. He’s learning to recognize the signs of her having an… episode… and she’s showing them now. The slight tremor to her fingertips, the furrow of her brow, and the blankness of her stare. “A bed of roses, soaked in blood.”

“Bronn.” Tyrion commands sharply and the man immediately moves away, off to deter any would-be listeners. “Sansa.” He takes her free hand, wincing at the chill to them.

“She died there.” Sansa says, gaze fixed on the roses. After a moment, she drags it away, looking at Tyrion with a hollow expression. “Will you help me with something, Lord Tyrion?”

“Of course. What is it?”

“I need to send a raven.” She says, so softly he barely hears it, and his brow furrows with unease.

“That would be treason.” He whispers and she winces, glancing down at the hand he holds.

“I have to send a warning to my brother.” Sansa explains, her expression pleading, and the dampness to her eyes makes something soften painfully inside him.

 _Margaery might play Joffrey like a fiddle, but this girl plays me like one too,_ he realizes.

It doesn’t change her expression, nor the effect it has on him. “Sansa… I can promise to try.” He says reluctantly.

She doesn’t look happy - just grimly relieved and grateful. “Thank you, Lord Tyrion.” She murmurs, squeezing his hand.

 

* * *

 

She comes to his rooms that night to write the letter. It’s a simple thing, just a few sentences long, and Tyrion reads them without shame.

He deserves to know what he’s taking responsibility for sending, after all.

_‘Dear Rob,_

_Marry the Frey girl. If you don’t, the Freys will kill you all. Remember the Rat Cook._

_All my love,_

_Sansa’_

Tyrion silently wraps the letter back up, mind spinning as he leaves to go to the ravens.

What in the world is the ‘Rat Cook’?

 

* * *

 

Sansa loses the token protection she’d had as the King’s betrothed. It’s stripped from her on the whimsical suggestion of her would be good-mother, and given to the lovely Margaery Tyrell.

Sansa pretends to be upset, but even when she’s beaten worse than usual after another fight Robb’s won, her smile never dwindles.

“Don’t you tire of this?” Tyrion asks as he dabs at her wounds, much like she’d tended to his. His face still aches viciously, only three weeks from the battle, but hers bleed actively under the cloth he presses to them.

“No.” Sansa says with the utmost sincerity. “It makes me proud.”

 _“Proud?”_ Tyrion repeats incredulously, peering around her back to look at her unashamed smile. It’s indecent, the way they are - with her dress undone at the back and exposed to his eyes. The front clutched carefully to her chest, hands shaky but smile steady and bright. “How could you be proud about _this?”_ He wonders.

“Robb is fighting his war and he’s winning it. I’m here fighting my own war. Who do you think is winning?” Sansa asks lightly.

The obvious answer is Joffrey.

The welts and lashes across her back attest to that. They criss-cross and vary in color and state of healing. Green bruises and white scars, black bruises and bloody open gashes.

The obvious answer is Joffrey and his wretched Kingsguard.

But the look on her face, utter confidence and cheer in the face of what should be causing misery…

“You.” He says quietly but fiercely, and her shoulder relax, face softening. “You are winning, aren’t you? You crazed little girl.” He says it harshly, but it comes out teasing, and her smile gentles.

“You aren’t wrong. On either side.” She says, mischief pulling at her lips, and he can’t help but chuckle lowly.

“My dear Sansa, you are a strange woman for sure. I doubt there’s anyone in the world quite like you.”

“No. But that’s a good thing.” She says, sorrow lacing her voice, but the strong smile remains. “A very good thing.” They go silent for a long moment, not a sound of pain escaping her as he dabs at the still oozing lashes. Finally, after several minutes, she breaks it. “I could have escaped, during the battle.”

His hands still. “You what?”

“The Hound. He fled - but he stopped by my quarters first.”

“You weren’t in your quarters.” Tyrion says slowly and with certainty.

“No. I was with the Queen Mother and the other women of the court.” Sansa confirms. “But he went to my chambers. I knew he would. If I’d gone to him, he’d have taken me away with him.”

“But you didn’t.” Tyrion says very, very slowly, his hands lowering from her back. They drop almost indecently low before he pulls them back and off her skin.

“No.”

“Why didn’t you? If what you say is true?”

“Because I owe someone something. Something they deserved to have in the first place, but I was too shallow to give.” Sansa says quietly, pulling her dress back up over her shoulders. Tyrion climbs off the bed, taking that as his cue to finish up, but Sansa turns towards him with a small frown. “I’m going to give it to you sometime soon, my lord. I wait for the day.” She murmurs, reaching out and taking his hand. She squeezes it, ignoring the blank way he stares at her.

Her words make no sense, but her touch is warm for once, and her smile is…

…is loving.

 

* * *

 

“They want to marry me to Loras Tyrell.” Sansa tells him one day, when she’s barged into his chambers.

“I was just breaking my fast. Sit, join me.” Tyrion invites, trying not to feel annoyed by the news. She frowns and sits across from him. Podrick makes her up a plate before leaving. “Loras Tyrell? That’s good news.”

“Is it?” Sansa demands, looking beyond frustrated. “I’m not a stupid little girl, Lord Tyrion. I know the boy and his desires.”

“Mayhaps. But mayhaps your marriage would allow you to leave King’s Landing.”

“I don’t care about that.” Sansa snaps, spearing a grape and eyeing it balefully. “I don’t care about leaving. I don’t want to leave.”

“How could you possibly not want to leave?” Tyrion asks, incredulous. She’s still beaten regularly, arguably worse now that she’s not the princess.

“Is it so hard to imagine that there’s some good here?” Sansa demands, glaring at him. Her eyes are damp and there’s something akin to hurt on her face. “I won’t fall for Margaery’s pretend friendship. I won’t marry Loras. I won’t leave for Highgarden ever in my life.”

“Sansa…” Tyrion starts, but she angrily shakes her head and he stops.

“Don’t you get it? There’s only one person in King’s Landing that I care about, and it isn’t Loras _bloody_ Tyrell.” She pauses, taking a deep breath, and before he can dare to hope, she speaks. “I care about _you,_ Tyrion. Only you.”

Tyrion stares at her and she stares back, gaze determined. He’s not sure what he must look like in that moment, but his voice is empty when he speaks. “You’re mistaken, Sansa. You’re too young to understand love-”

“I’m ten and four, Tyrion.” She cuts in, and the age makes him wince.

Ten and four? He’s nearly twenty and eight. Twice her age. “You don’t understand-”

“I do. I know what I understand, Lord Tyrion, and I understand _you.”_ She huffs and stares at him defiantly. He stays silent, watching her grow more and more frustrated, until finally she jerks to her feet and throws her napkin onto the table. “It doesn’t matter. Your father is devious. We’ll be forced to wed soon enough regardless - but know this. I _want_ it.” She says fiercely, towering over the table. “I don’t fancy myself to be in love with you, Lord Tyrion, but what I feel is the closest thing to it that I’ve ever felt before.”

With that, she whips around and storms out of the room, closing the door hard behind her.

Tyrion stares blankly at the door, feeling rather like he’d just been caught in a tornado.

Did she just say his father was going to force them to wed?

 

* * *

 

It’s three days before he sees Sansa again, and loathe as he is to admit it, he misses her presence. When he does see her, she isn’t in the mood to talk about love and marriage.

“My brother. I need to write to him again. Please, Tyrion, please.” She begs, a franticness to her that makes his heart ache in sympathy.

“Sansa…” He starts, but trails off because how can he say no? She looks at him with pleading, desperate eyes, and he bites his lip. It makes the skin pull achingly at his scars.

 _“Please,_ Tyrion.”

With guilt pulling at his insides, he gets up and fetches a small scroll and a quill. He lays them on the table before her and she takes them without looking at him, writing quickly.

_‘Beware the burner of children. His father will set him alight. Keep him close and he will remain loyal._

_Sansa.’_

Tyrion shamelessly reads it in front of her, frowning at the odd words. Sometimes the girl is so insightful it takes his breath away. Other times she’s just _strange._

“That’s it?”

“Yes. Please, Tyrion-”

“I’ll handle it, Sansa.” Tyrion promises quietly. “Don’t worry.” He says, and something has him reaching out automatically to squeeze her hand. It’s cold again, like usual, and her smile is damp and tired.

“Thank you.” She whispers and he pulls away, heading for the ravenry.

It’s a hard truth that he finds himself accepting on the way.

He’s so pathetic he’s fallen for a girl only ten and four.

 

* * *

 

Sansa is insane.

She knows it, she accepts it, and she endures in spite of it.

She’s insane, and there’s nothing she can do to stop it.

“I’m sorry,” She whispers to the air, looking out her window. It’s night, the castle silent and eerie, and the water glimmers faintly in the darkness.

Twice now, she’s seen the same water washed with green fire and the screams of the dying.

Twice now, she’s endured the aftermath.

This one has been worse than the other.

Sansa’s died once. She’s lost everything and then lost her life, watched the entire world fall apart before her eyes. She’s felt life slip through her fingers like loose dirt, and wash away like the current of a stream.

She has nothing to fear in this new life. Nothing but repetition.

There’s very little repetition in this life now, but also very much of it. The same events unfold before her eyes, and she waits with baited breath to see if it will all happen the same way.

If Robb will heed her advice and prevent the Red Wedding.

If Tyrion will accept her love and keep helping her when she needs it.

If Theon will still betray them, burning children in a facade of Bran and Rickon’s murder.

If Petyr will still try to lure her into his clutches when her marriage to Tyrion becomes reality.

She doesn’t fear Tyrion. She doesn’t fear his ugliness like she once did.

She saw things much, much more hideous than a dwarf with scars.

No, she doesn’t fear Tyrion. She admires him, his confidence, and what he’d achieved in another life. She even appreciates his grim humor. He’s not ugly to her now. There are things far uglier for her to worry about.

“I won’t say I love you,” She tells him quietly, after the Queen Mother denounced her and Joffrey accepted Margaery to be his new bride. After Margaery has tried to tempt her into wedding her brother. After Sansa had cast her away with an ease she’d not had in her past life. _“I love someone else.”_ She’d lied to Margaery, but to Tyrion, she tells the truth. “But I care for you deeply. Deeper than anyone but my family.”

“Then you’re a silly little girl, Sansa Stark. Something I never thought I’d tell you.” Tyrion returns, sipping at his wine and trying to look disagreeable - but he can’t quite manage it. “You don’t know what love is, much less what it means.”

“I do.”

“I’m twenty and eight, Sansa. You’re barely ten and four.”

“Actually, I’m halfway to ten and five. Just to be factual.” Sansa corrects him and he sighs.

“And I’m halfway to twenty and nine. The point _remains,_ Sansa.”

“There is no point. It doesn’t matter. At least, it won’t once your father makes his announcement.”

“What announcement?”

“That we’re going to be wed.” Sansa explains, her voice quieting. “It’ll be any day now.”

Tyrion makes a low, frustrated noise at that. “Sansa, Father has made no mention or hint of that happening. Stop saying it like it’s a fact.”

“It is.” Sansa retorts, frowning now. “You’ll see soon enough.” She says and there’s a hint of a sting to her now. She’d thought Tyrion had understood that she _knew_ these things - but if he didn’t, or if he was just in denial, it would end soon. Tywin would make his announcements, Joffrey would laugh at it all like it was a genius joke, and Sansa would laugh as well.

Because to her, she’d still be winning.

To her, Tyrion is just one step to her plan.

 

* * *

 

It takes a week of tense silence between them before Tywin declares Tyrion is to wed her.

Tyrion breaks a glass of wine and stares at her like he’s never seen her before. Joffrey laughs and mock and laughs some more.

Behind closed doors, Sansa laughs with Tyrion, who offers a faint, unsteady smile.

 


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

 

 

 

Sansa’s dragged to the throne room three mornings later. It’s bright and early, the sun is shining and the birds are singing, but she’s dragged from her balcony by a rough Ser Meryn. She doesn’t resist, but he’s harsh with her anyways.

He always is, Ser Meryn.

If ever there was someone least fit for knighthood, it would be him.

And so she’s dragged, until she reaches a throne room full of uneasy bystanders and a tight-jawed Joffrey. One glance tells her that neither Tyrion or Tywin isn’t there, and that means she’s about to get beaten for whatever slight the man has taken.

“We’ve received news from your brother.” Joffrey says as Ser Meryn shoves her to her knees.

“The traitor, my lord?” She asks, lips twitching faintly. Joffrey notices, his jaw locking even tighter. He leans forward, reaching out and pulling up his crossbow.

It’s not the first time he’s threatened her with it - not by half - but this time feels a little different. He isn’t playing with her. He’s genuinely furious.

“Your traitor brother Robb has married the daughter of Walder Frey. The Twins and the Trident now belong to him.” Joffrey spits, standing up and aiming the crossbow. For a moment, all Sansa can do is stare at him, eyes wide.

Something in her warms, bubbling up until she can't help it.

She laughs.

She laughs and she laughs, relief and glee rushing through her dizzyingly, and she laughs so hard it hurts her stomach.

She doesn’t hear what Joffrey snarls, but she feels the blows from Ser Meryn.

None of it even fazes her. Nothing stops her laughter, her overflowing happiness.

Nothing.

Not even when they have to carry her out of the throne room to Pycelle, bloodied and finally silenced, does she stop smiling.

Robb married the Frey woman, and that means the world to her.

She can _change._

 

* * *

 

 

“Father was furious.” Tyrion tells Sansa, holding her hand. It’s colder than usual, and he imagines that’s because all of her blood is busy inflaming the wounds on her back.

And the wound to her shoulder.

“He couldn’t believe Joffrey was stupid enough to actually shoot you.”

“He missed.” Sansa tells him and Tyrion smiles tiredly at her lighthearted tone.

How someone could be so happy after being shot with a crossbow, he doesn’t know. But then, there’s a lot of things about Sansa he doesn’t understand.

“He grazed you.” He corrects.

“It counts as missing.” Sansa assures him and he chuckles quietly. “I wish I could have seen your father’s reaction.”

“He sent him to bed early and without dinner. A king, sent to bed without dinner.” Tyrion shakes his head in amusement. “The look on his face _was_ rather amusing.”

“I can imagine.” She says, smile beaming.

It hasn’t faltered once since he entered the room, and he has no idea what she’s so pleased about, but he’s glad to see her smiling. “You were right, Sansa. We’ll be wed soon.”

“Promise me something?” Sansa requests, giving his hand a gentle squeeze, and he looks at her questioningly. “Don’t overdrink. Let us celebrate this, even if it’s not what we wanted. We can still make it a good marriage. Let’s not start off on the wrong foot.”

Tyrion squeezes her hands back and exhales a slow breath. “I wouldn’t do anything to shame you, Sansa.” He says, and her smile softens slightly. “Though arguably marrying me to begin with is shameful.”

“Only to outsiders looking in.” Sansa counters. “For us, we know the truth. You treat me well.” Sansa pauses for a moment, lips twisting down. “I don’t care what others think. I know the truth.”

Tyrion stares at her, taking in the seriousness of her expression. The set of her jaw. The hardness of her eyes.

She’s so beautiful, and so determined to love him.

“What did I do to deserve you?” He wonders quietly.

She smiles softly at him and says nothing.

 

* * *

 

Joffrey does everything to make the wedding a humiliating event.

Sansa does everything to make him fail.

He walks her down the aisle and she smiles like it’s normal. Joffrey snatches away Tyrion’s stool, and when it comes time for Tyrion to cloak her, she immediately crouches down to his height.

In one life, people had giggled as she’d stood there stupidly, and him awkwardly. In this life, no one laughs. She rises gracefully, Tyrion’s hand lingering on her shoulders for a moment, and turns to the Septon.

When it’s over, the dinner begins, and Sansa sits by his side and doesn’t leave. Tyrion does as he promised and keeps the drinking to a minimum.

The only tension comes when Joffrey, no doubt in an attempt to embarrass her, declares it time for the ‘bedding ceremony’.

“There will be no bedding ceremony.” Tyrion contradicts instantly.

Sansa reaches out and takes his hand, his gaze turning to her. “I don’t mind. I’m not ashamed.” Sansa tells him firmly.

His hand is limp in hers for a moment before it tightens and he nods.

They stand up together and the bedding ceremony begins. Hands grab at her, groping at more than just her clothing, but Sansa just laughs and goes with the crowd.

By the time she and Tyrion are thrust into their room, he’s wearing nothing but his underclothes and she’s holding the shreds of her own to her chest.

She grins at him, wicked and wild, and he smiles warmly back. “Come, husband. We have work to do.” Sansa beckons him.

There’s reluctance in him the entire time, all the way until Sansa rolls them over and sits herself onto him. The breath leaves him in a rush, his brow furrowing and eyes closing tight. “Look at me.” Sansa orders, stilling, and after a moment, he opens his eyes. “Look at me.” She says more gently, then rises and falls.

Again, his breath leaves him. Again, and again, and again - until finally he gives in. She rolls over and lets him.

It’s not the wedding she’d dreamed of once.

It’s the only wedding she’d dreamed of since.

 

* * *

 

  
Sansa drinks moon tea.

She doesn’t bother hiding it when Tyrion asks what she’s drinking the next morning. He frowns but nods. “If that’s what you wish.”

“One day.” Sansa promises him. “But not now. Not today. Not in nine moons from today.” Sansa emphasises and he nods.

“Besides, I wouldn’t want you to end up like my mother - or our child to end up like me.” Tyrion muses.

She immediately reaches across the table and seizes his hand, squeezing it tightly. He blinks at her with his odd-colored eyes, his scarred and deformed face, and she meets his gaze as steadily as possible. “I wouldn’t care.” Sansa tells him fiercely. “Not for a single second would I care. He could come out with three arms and three legs and I would still love him, no matter _what.”_ Sansa swears.

“And if it’s a she? A girl who is like me?” Tyrion asks softly.

“Then I would love her all the same. And we wouldn’t let anyone below our stature marry her. She would be royalty.”

“You really mean that.” Tyrion realises aloud and Sansa glares at him, running her thumb over his knuckles.

“I mean it with all my heart.” She says, then hesitates for a moment. “It might not be any time soon, but promise me the same. If I… do die, you won’t blame him or her?”

Tyrion stares at her and then sighs. “I can promise that with all my heart as well, Sansa.”

She smiles warmly at him.

They break their fast in a peaceful silence.

 

* * *

 

It’s two months of peace before Tyrion comes to her with a tense frown. “Father found out you’re drinking moon tea.”

“What did he say?” Sansa asks, mind spinning. Who had spread the word? Visions of her handmaidens faces pass through her mind. Which one had given her up to Tywin Lannister?

“That I’m to force you to cease immediately.” Tyrion sighs heavily. “I’m not certain how to fight his decision, Sansa.”

She’d bought herself two months, Sansa reflects, but now she almost regrets it.

“Cersei tells me that giving you a child would be a mercy. That it would give you something to love and a reason to be happy. That it would prevent you from flinging yourself from the highest tower of the Red Keep.” Tyrion murmurs, sitting across the table from her.

Sansa, sitting next to the window, glances out for a brief moment. The fall would certainly kill her, even from only a medium height of the castle. “Well, she’s wrong.” Sansa decides, frowning. “I have no desire to leap from the windows. I also have no desire to have a child, just yet… but perhaps we don’t have a choice.”

“We always have a choice.”

She looks back at him suddenly, frown deepening. “Will you take me away from here, Tyrion?”

He blinks at her. “Away? Where would we go?”

She looks away again, mind casting out. She knows where she wants to go.

South.

 _Far_ south, and far east. Beyond the reaches of the Seven Kingdoms and further on. To keep going until they reach _her._

“The living fire.” Sansa murmurs distantly. “I want to go to the fire.”

A hand touches hers. “Sansa?” Tyrion questions in concern. Her fingers tremble against his.

She looks sideways at him, expression pained. “I want to leave. I want to leave so badly it hurts. I want to be free of this prison. I want to go south.”

“South?” Tyrion repeats, brow furrowing. “Not north?”

“Winterfell is gone. All that lies there for me is pain and suffering.” And how very well Ramsey had made her suffer. How he’d caused her unbelievable pain.

“Sansa-”

“I want to go, Tyrion. I want to go.” She whispers, eyes damp, and she blinks a few tears free. Her free hand rises to swipe them away, only to blink at the blood that smears on her fingers. “Tyrion?” She questions bleakly, staring at the red, red blood.

“Stay here, Sansa. Stay here.” Tyrion says urgently, leaping from the table. “I’m getting Pycelle. _Don’t move!”_ He commands, the door slamming shut behind him.

Sansa watches him go, blood on her face and hand, and stares at it blankly. “Why won’t you let me do this?” She whispers, rubbing the red liquid between her thumb and fingers. “Why do you always get in my way?” She murmurs.

The blood slides down her face and she sits in silence.

 

* * *

 

  
“Were she showing any other symptoms, I’d suspect poison.” Pycelle tells Tyrion as they stand next to his bed. He’s carefully wiping blood from Sansa’s pale, chilled face, the girl finally asleep after a drink of nightshade Pycell have given her. “As it stands, I would call it a chronic illness of some sort. Something I haven’t seen before. I’ll send word to the Citadel and request advice on this.” Pycelle says heavily.

“How concerned should we be?” Tyrion asks, rubbing the warm cloth under her eyes and nose. “Will this bleeding affect her in other ways?”

“Perhaps. Bleeding diseases usually cause death from anything as simple as a cut to something as difficult as childbirth.”

“She could die in childbirth?” Tyrion demands, looking at the man, who harrumphs quietly.

“Possibly. Possibly not. I’ll have to consult the Citadel, as I said.”

“Do that, then, Grand Maester. She must be able to bear me a child.” Tyrion says sharply, fear adding harshness to his words.

If she isn’t able to give birth…

He can imagine what his father will do, and none of it is good for the girl. “Tell no one of this until we receive word from the Citadel.”

“I’m afraid your father will want to be informed.” Pycelle contradicts instantly and Tyrion wants to curse under his breath. He bites it back, scowling at the stilled form on the bed.

“I’ll tell him myself, then.” Tyrion decides aloud, sighing. “Best get it over with.” He adds under his breath.

He stands, rising on the tips of his toes so he can plant a gentle kiss on Sansa’s forehead, and then turns to leave.

Pycelle shuffles along behind him.

 

* * *

 

  
“The girl is useless if she cannot bear you a child.” 

“We don’t know that she can’t.” Tyrion counters immediately. “Only that it’s a possibility.”

“We won’t know for certain until I hear back from the Citadel.” Pycelle adds, actually _helpful_ for once.

“The risk is too high.”

“For all we know, there _is_ no risk.” Tyrion fires back, frowning at his father, who scowls back down at him. “She is not yet pregnant. She is open to the idea of becoming so, but we’ll wait until word comes from the Citadel.”

His father scoffs softly. “Open to the idea? She should be pregnant already, regardless of her opinion. Regardless, I suppose it’s a good thing she is not. If these fears are true, it would be even more of a mess than it already is. Very well,” He huffs before Tyrion can retort, “We’ll wait for word from the Citadel. Until then…” He pulls a face as though he’s bitten into a lemon, “keep the girl unimpregnated. Lest we lose her and the influence she gives us.”

He bites his tongue, resisting the urge to point out that so far, her influence has meant nothing. Negotiations to trade her for Jaime had proven fruitless, not the least because they’d lost Arya and couldn’t use her as well.

Tyrion nods instead, silently minding himself. “Yes, father.”

“Get out of here. Pycelle. Tell me more about these possible bleeding diseases.” His father commands.

Irritated but relieved, Tyrion leaves without hesitation.

He returns to his rooms, finding Sansa sitting up on propped pillows. She looks unsteady but awake, and he immediately goes to her side, taking her hand. It’s still cold and he grips to between both hands, attempting to warm it. “Sansa. How are you feeling?”

“Tired, Tyrion.” She murmurs, and she sounds truly exhausted. Her skin is white and pale, but when she squeezes his hand, it’s steady. “Thank you for helping me.”

“Of course. I’m only sorry that Pycelle couldn’t give us a better answer. He believes it’s a bleeding disease of some sort, but won’t know for sure until he hears back from the Citadel.”

“It’s not.” Sansa says quietly and he blinks at her questioningly. “It’s not a bleeding disease. It’s my mind, Tyrion. My mind is diseased.”

“Diseased minds do not cause bleeding.” He refutes, shaking his head. Her hand squeezes tightly. Almost painfully so. When he looks at her, her eyes are damp with tears and her lips are twitching downwards.

“But it is, Tyrion. It is my mind, and it is causing the bleeding. I can’t stop it. I can’t help it. It’s my _mind._ There’s just so… so _much_ in it that’s broken, Tyrion.” Sansa’s other hand rises to stifle a sob and he watches helplessly, only able to cradle the hand he holds. “It’s shattered, can’t you see? I’m not strange in the mind, I’m _shattered.”_

“You’re not.” Tyrion promises fiercely, squeezing her hand tightly. “You’re not broken, Sansa. You aren’t shattered. You’re…” He wavers for a moment, helpless, then whispers, “You’re you. And that’s all anyone can ask you to be, Sansa. All that someone can love and adore you for. You’re _you.”_ He whispers.

Sansa sobs, tears rolling down her face, and when she moves to embrace him, he climbs up to return it as tightly as he can. She shudders and shakes under his touch, but he holds her, and she holds him.

 

* * *

 

Sansa has days when she wakes up and forgets everything that’s happened.

There’s a light in her life, and sometimes, when she opens her eyes and finds herself face to face with him, she forgets.

But it always comes back to her in time.

The fire’s warmth. The ice’s chill.

The death and the undeath.

She remembers it all, in fragments or in wholes, but she always remembers.

Always.

“I’ve lived a life you’ll never know.” She whispers to Tyrion, who sleeps heavily beside her. She should be sleeping too, but the essence of nightshade that Pycelle had left her lies untouched at her bedside. “I don’t want you to ever know it.” Sansa murmurs, far too quietly to disturb him. Just barely enough to be heard by herself. “One day, I might tell you about it all. Maybe that’ll help. Maybe that’ll make it worse. But I might tell you.”

About the raping and the maiming. The torture and the torment. That she’d been hurt in ways she’d never have been able to mend in her past life.

And the things she’d seen, the deaths she’s watched and _felt_ fade under her helpless hands.

All the many ways she broke.

All the ways she shattered into so many pieces that some days she can’t even keep count of them all.

That some days she can’t even remember who she is now.

“You’re so patient with me.” She says, a little bit louder now. She doesn’t want to disturb him, but she wants him to hear her words. Sansa reaches up and cradles the side of his face, fingers touching the edges of his scar. Thumb brushing over his lips.

He doesn’t stir, but his breath is warm against her touching hand.

“I adore you. You’re one light in an endless sea of darkness.” She murmurs.

After a long minute of staring, she quietly says,

“One day, we’ll go find another light. Together, this time.”

 

* * *

 

Thousands of miles away, Robb Stark lies curled against his wife, his mind whirring as he cradles her stomach.

She’s pregnant, but he can only feel the slightest of curve. It’s still enough to marvel at. Roslin Frey.

Her beauty had surpassed imagination, and while he doesn’t consider himself a _shallow_ man, it had been a relief to wed her.

 _“Marry the Frey girl.”_ Sansa’s letter had said. _“If you don’t, the Freys will kill you all. Remember the Rat Cook.”_

The Rat Cook.

A man who had killed those who he had accepted as guests under his roof, turned into a rat and forced to eat his own children for the rest of his long, long life.

A ghost story, but one they all knew. It had been a favorite of Bran’s.

Sansa knew he’d remember.

Sansa always knew things she had no right to.

Sansa was also in the clutches of their enemies.

It had been risky to listen to the letter. He hadn’t told anyone about it, kept it secreted away for some days before outright burning the thing.

Sansa had been right though. Sansa was _always_ right, and sometimes it annoyed him. Sometimes it relieved him.

Sometimes it was just _strange._

 _“You should always listen to her,”_ Jon had told him once. _“She’s strange, but she’s smart. Maybe sometimes she comes off as crazed, but there’s something in her eyes that makes me think she knows more than she lets on.”_

 _“She’s off her bloody rocker,”_ Theon had countered. _“Like an old crone from the stories.”_

 _“The burner of children,”_ she’d called Theon.

He listened to them all as best as he could. He kept Theon close, especially after Sansa’s letter.

 _“Keep him close and he will remain loyal.”_ Her letter had said.

So he kept his best friend close, and trusted in both him and Sansa to stay that way. So far, he’d not been disappointed.

Theon was an excellent help, always ready to support him - or knock him down a notch when needed. And after, he could always admit that he _did_ need it. Even if it pissed him off.

“You’re lost in thought.” Roslin murmurs, startling him, and he looks over at her. She’s still timid - almost annoyingly so, but he tries to be patient. She holds his gaze for a moment, then darts it down to his chin, then back to his eyes. “Can I help?” She asks, a bit uncertainly.

“No. But thank you regardless.” Robb says sincerely, sighing into her hair. She really is a beauty, which is remarkable considering her lineage. But more than that, she was kind.

He reaches up and tucks some of her hair behind her ear, earning a small smile for that. “Then I’m sorry I can’t help.”

“So am I. It would be easier.” He says softly. “I worry for my sister.”

“The Kingslayer promised to return her.” Roslin reminds him and he grimaces at that.

Catelyn Stark, his own mother, had let the bastard go free, and caused a slew of problems in the wake of that decision.

“Perhaps he will. But she’s been wed to his brother.” He reminds her. _The Imp,_ he thinks uncharitably. His _good-brother_ had been kind enough to let Sansa send those letters, but he’d had no word outside of that. And still no news on Arya…

She deserved better. Both of them deserved better.

But their fates were left to the oath of a legendary Oathbreaker. “Perhaps.” He repeats, staring past his wife and up at the curtains of his room.

Maybe, just maybe, Jaime Lannister would pull through.  


* * *

 

Jaime was an Oathbreaker, but he made an oath he actually intended on keeping. Even after having his hand chopped off, even after infection and cauterizing, even after months of hell, he make it to King’s Landing - and that meant he had an oath to keep.

“Let me take you out of here, Sansa.” He implores the girl, days after his return. He’s bathed and clean for the first time in months, and he uses all the power of his charm to urge the girl to listen.

“I won’t leave.” Sansa refuses firmly. “Not now. Not yet.”

“Then when, you silly little girl? I can’t do it at a moment’s notice - I need time to plan, time to figure out-”

“You’ll have it.” Sansa assures him with the epitome of calm. She even smiles at him softly. “You’ll have plenty of time, since I’m stuck here anyways.” She pauses, looking away from him for a moment, and for a moment it’s like she’s looking at something he can’t see. Then she suddenly refocuses on him. “I want to leave a week before Joffrey’s wedding. With Tyrion.”

“With Tyrion? He won’t be welcome in that camp, Sansa.”

“No. But we aren’t going there. We’re going south.”

“To _Dorne?_ Are you trying to get your husband killed?” He asks, and Sansa flapped a hand at him.

“Of course not. No, I mean south and then east, to… I suspect Meereen by the time we reach it.”

 _“Meereen?”_ Jaime demands. “Are you out of your mind? No, I promised to return you to your mother. If you won’t go to her, you won’t go anywhere else either. My father would butcher me for it.”

“You’ve already been butchered, Ser Jaime.” Sansa fires back, standing suddenly. She’s tall, for someone only ten and four, but she’s not quite as tall as him. “If you want to help me, do this. If not… well, you’re already an Oathbreaker.”

He bristles at that, jaw locking in anger at that attack on his person. He whips around to leave and Sansa cuts him off with his hand already on the door handle.

“No, wait. I apologize.” Sansa says, sincerely enough that he turns his head a bit to look at her. “I didn’t mean that. I apologize, Ser Jaime. But I won’t go with you.”

He nods sharply, swinging the door open and closing it hard behind him, and Sansa watches him go with a small frown.

 

 

* * *

 

That night, Sansa pens a letter to her brother.

_ “Congratulations on your wedding, Robb. Jaime Lannister has arrived. Tell mother I send her my thanks, and please do not be too angry with her for this.  _

_ I won’t be coming home. He offered to escort me to you, but I refused. I’m sorry. I’m needed elsewhere, Robb, and no matter what you hear, remember that I’m safe, and that I chose this.  _

_ All will be well. I promise.  _

_ All my love, _

_ Sansa _ _ Stark.” _

 

* * *

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a little late! I had to move, so I was pretty busy for a couple days. I hope you all like it ♥


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

 

 

Sansa runs her hands down the gown she wears, assessing the dress in the mirror. “You look beautiful, m’lady.” One of her handmaidens says and Sansa smiles softly.

“Thank you.” She runs her fingers over the necklace she wears.

The poisonous jewelry that Littlefinger had orchestrated for her to wear.

She’d debated heavily before accepting the ‘gift’ from the once-knight turned fool, Ser Dontos Holland.

She’d debated, but in truth, the choice she made was easy.

 _The Mad King reborn,_ she can’t help but think as she gently touches the necklace. Her back aches from the damage the boy-king had ordered inflicted on her. She doesn’t even know what she’d done to upset him this time - she hadn’t paid attention, but it probably had to do with Robb.

The strings of her corset pull at the injuries, but she doesn’t mind it too much. She has more important things on her mind. The dress is lovely, a purple-gray that compliments the blue of her eyes.

“You look lovely.” Tyrion says, announcing his presence, and she turns to see him in the doorway. She smiles softly as he nods to her handmaidens, who silently file out. He closes the door behind them, then turns his full attention to her. “Your hair is beautiful.”

She reaches up to touch the elaborate braids and curls and smiles. “Thank you, Tyrion. You look lovely yourself.”

He’s in his usual style of clothes, but his tunic is more decorated than they normally are. A subtle but fitting style. “Thank you, Sansa.” He says graciously, stepping up to her. She crouches down and he kisses her softly, then pulls back and examines her. “You’re stunning.”

She smiles brilliantly at him, straightening up. “Your words warm me, my lord.”

“And yours warm me, my lady.” He returns with a slightly crooked smile. It pulls at his scars, baring them more obviously, but she doesn’t mind them. She never has.

“How long do we have before it’s time to leave for the wedding?”

“Not much longer. We’ll have to leave soon.” Tyrion sighs heavily, stepping over to the table and pouring two glasses of wine. He carries one over to her, presenting it carefully, and she takes it with a smile. “Here. Drink. I suspect we’ll both be needing this before the night is over.”

“I’m sure.” She agrees, sipping at the warm liquid.

Guilt churns her stomach, but the wine calms it. Her hands, shaky at first, begin to relax and steady as she drinks.

It’s some minutes, a dozen or more, before Tyrion takes her empty glass from her hand. “It’s time.”

The bells are tolling in the distance and Sansa rises as smoothly as she can in a dress so heavy. “It’s hot.” She complains as she takes his hand. “I wish winter would reach us already.”

“Winter is coming.” Tyrion notes sardonically and Sansa laughs.

“So my family says.” Her dress is gray in the color of her House, with hints of gold in the color of his. “My family of traitors, that is.” She adds lightly and Tyrion chuckles.

“Hush now, Sansa.” He pats her hand with his free one. “We can’t be seen laughing at such matters.”

“Of course not.” Sansa agrees smoothly, wishing for once that the man was a normal height, so that she could press herself against him. As it is, she has to settle for a hand holding.

The wine calms her, even as guilt and unease works at the edges of her frayed mind.

She smiles at her husband, holds his hand, and doesn’t let anything show.

 

* * *

 

The wedding goes as expected. It’s beautiful and smooth, and in the aftermath, the partygoers head for the feast. As part of the _family,_ Sansa and Tyrion are seated at the main table, a few seats down from Margaery and Joffrey.

The feast, naturally, is where things go wrong. It starts with a mortifyingly stupid display of a troupe of dwarves, ‘reenacting’ the War of the Five Kings. Joffrey mocks Tyrion, Tyrion mocks Joffrey, and Joffrey ‘spills’ his cup of wine over Tyrion’s head.

“My love, come back to me. It’s time for my father’s toast.” Margaery attempts to reel the boy-king in.

“How does he expect me to toast without any wine?” Joffrey fires back instantly, eyes narrowing on Tyrion. “Uncle. You can be my cupbearer. Seeing as you’re too cowardly to fight.”

“Your Grace does me a great honor,” Tyrion responds politely.

“It’s not meant as an honor.” Joffrey says, voice taut with anger.

Tyrion stares at him for a moment, then glances at Sansa, who smiles faintly at him. He climbs off his chair and goes to Joffrey, Sansa watching his every movement. Just as he reaches Joffrey, the King ‘drops’ the cup, sending it rolling under the table.

“Bring me my goblet.” Joffrey commands.

Without hesitation, Sansa ducks down and scoops it from the ground, standing up and walking towards Tyrion. “My lord.” She curtsies before offering Tyrion the cup. The dwarf takes it, offering it to Joffrey.

“What good is an empty cup?” He demands quietly. “Fill it.”

With a glare, Tyrion turns, grasping the closest vase of wine and pouring it. Once more, he presents it to Joffrey.

“Kneel.” Joffrey commands. “Kneel before your king.” Tyrion remains still and Joffrey’s face twists with anger. “Kneel.” He repeats in a dangerously soft tone. It sends a small shiver down Sansa’s scarred back, but she remains still, waiting. “I said… _KNEEL.”_

“Tyrion.” Sansa says quietly, and the reaction is immediate. Without hesitation, Tyrion kneels down, offering the goblet to Joffrey.

It’s taken with a smug smile, which is interrupted by Margaery suddenly standing up. “Look, the pie!” She exclaims cheerfully, breaking the tension.

The crowd cheers as a massive pie is carried out into the courtyard, Joffrey turning and passing his goblet to Margaery. He draws his sword and approaches the pie, smirking before slicing into the massive pie. Bird flutter out of it, drawing cheers and applause, and Sansa quietly claps her hands.

“Wonderful!” Margaery cries happily, clapping. Two servants cut into the pie properly, pulling out two plates worth, and they bring it over to the happy couple.

Margaery offers Joffrey a bite of the pie, which he takes happily before turning.

“Uncle. Serve me my wine. This pie is dry.” He commands.

Tyrion pauses for a moment and Sansa touches his hand. “Go.” She says softly and the dwarf does, going over to Joffrey and passing him his goblet. He immediately returns to Sansa’s side, ignoring Joffrey’s muttering.

“Mm, good. Needs washing down.” Joffrey says under his breath. Tyrion sits back down at Sansa’s side and she smiles at him.

Joffrey coughs roughly. Margaery looks at him in concern and Sansa’s smile grows for a moment before she forces it away. “It’s nothing.” Joffrey says before coughing harshly again. He coughs and coughs, Margaery’s eyes widening in horror.

“He’s choking!”

“Help the poor boy!” Her grandmother immediately shouts. Joffrey drops the cup and falls, coughing violently. Cersei jerks to her feet, rushing to Joffrey’s side. “Idiots, help your King!”

Jaime reaches Joffrey’s side before anyone else, the boy choking and coughing, but Cersei’s only a step behind. “Joffrey!” Cersei cries out.

A hand grabs Sansa’s arm. “Come with me now.” A familiar face demands, pulling. Sansa doesn’t move, watching Joffrey for a moment. “If you want to live, we have to leave.”

She swallows down a bitter taste and opens her mouth. “Tyrion! Help!” She cries out.

The dwarf, frozen at her side, immediately whirls around. Dontos, the knight turned fool, freezes with wide eyes. “Seize him!” Tyrion roars, pulling Sansa away. Dontos looks wildly around, but Jaime is far faster to react. He leaves Joffrey’s side, lunging for the fool, who makes an aborted attempt at escape before he’s seized. “Take him!” Tyrion commands. “He tried to harm my wife!”

“No! I didn’t hurt her! I didn’t do anything!”

Sansa looks away, using Joffrey as an excuse to drop to her knees and bury her face in Tyrion’s neck. “He grabbed me. He tried to take me away.” She sobs, and her tears are real.

Horror and grief pulls at her insides - not for Joffrey, but for Dontos.

Dontos, who had murdered the King and was destined to die for it regardless - but still, it leaves bitter regret churning her stomach.

“Take him!” Cersei screams as Jaime drags the pleading Dontos away from them. “Take him!” She roars.

Sansa dares to look up long enough to see Cersei watching Dontos, not them, and relief makes her sob even harder. She shouldn’t feel relieved, but she does.

With Tyrion at her side, Cersei’s body blocked Joffrey’s view of him, making it impossible for him to point at him with his dying strength.

With Tyrion at her side, Dontos couldn’t steal her away in the night.

Tyrion would not be blamed for this murder, even if Cersei decides to out of spite. Tyrion would not be taken from her.

Littlefinger would be left sitting out at sea, waiting for a girl who will never arrive.

Sansa buries her face harder into Tyrion’s neck and the dwarf holds her as tight as he can.

Her tears dry, and she almost smiles.

 

* * *

 

Cersei tries to blame Tyrion for the death. “‘I will hurt you for this. A day will come when you think you are safe and happy, and your joy will turn to ashes in your mouth.’” Cersei quotes furiously.

Sansa holds Tyrion’s hand tightly under the table. There’s nine of them in the room - the Small Council, plus herself, Tyrion, Jaime, and Cersei. “Dontos confessed.” Jaime says with a frown, looking deeply unhappy.

“Under torture, he was unwavering.” Tywin confirms darkly. Sansa shivers slightly and Tyrion’s hand tightens around hers. “He used Sansa Stark to poison the King indirectly, without anyone else’s knowledge - except Littlefinger, who gave him the poison.”

“Littlefinger’s always been loyal to us.” Cersei argues.

“He’s loyal to himself and only himself.” Tyrion fires back instantly. “He always has been. We gave him lands and titles and when he had what he wanted, he turned on us.”

“ _Us?”_ Cersei hisses. “What did _you_ lose to this?”

“Almost my wife.” Tyrion snaps, his hand almost painfully tight around hers. “Had she not cried out, he would have taken her away in the chaos.”

“And why is that? What’s Littlefinger’s interest in the girl?” Cersei sneers and Sansa grimaces.

“He loves my mother. He told me I'm even more beautiful than her.” Sansa half-lies. It’s the truth, but he hadn’t said it to her _yet._

Tywin, to her surprise, grimaces as well. “Disgusting man. He always has been. I’m not surprised to hear him betray us.”

“His love for Catelyn Stark I can confirm.” Varys chimes in, looking at Sansa. “And you do look very much like her.”

“And we just made him Lord of the Eyrie.” Tyrion says darkly.

There’s a moment of tense, displeased silence, and then Tywin speaks.

“He confirms that Sansa had no idea about the poison. I won’t pursue that any further.”

“But Tyrion-” Cersei starts, only to be cut off by Tywin.

“Is innocent, according to every source. Your only evidence is something he said out of anger - and I assure you, you’ve said worse.” Tywin snaps irritably. “Drop the subject, Cersei.”

“I won’t. He’s _guilty.”_

“Of nothing but words in the wind.”

The hand on hers twitches and Sansa looks sideways to see Tyrion watching Tywin with concealed surprise. “Sansa-” Cersei starts again, and is once more cut off.

“Was an unknowing aspect in this. She had no idea. I won’t blame a silly girl for the murder of a King, Cersei.”

“I had no idea, I swear it.” Sansa says meekly. “He gave me the necklace. I thought it was a kind gift.”

Cersei sneers at her and Sansa looks down at the ground, her hand shaking in Tyrion’s grip.

“Leave it.” Tywin commands before Cersei can say a thing. “It was a fool’s mistake.” Sansa twitches at that. “But she is not to blame. Dontos will face a trial and be punished accordingly.”

“And what is accordingly? Death by bludgeoning?” Tyrion asks dryly.

“Beheading.” Tywin corrects with a harsh look.

“Hmph. Seems a little uncreative for regicide.” He notes and Tywin looks away and towards Oberyn, who sits splayed out lazily in his seat.

“We’ll need three judges. I will be one. Prince Oberyn?”

Oberyn deliberates for a moment before humming softly. “I will do this, yes. I do not mind the duty.”

Tywin looks to Mace Tyrell, who nods immediately.

“I will accept the position.”

“Then it’s settled. Dontos will have two weeks to prepare a defense. We already have all the evidence we need to convict him.”

“What about Sansa?” Tyrion asks and Cersei sneers.

“According to all sources, she was an innocent in this.”

“Her necklace poisoned my _son.”_ Cersei argues and Tywin shoots her a harsh glare.

“She was unknowing. She cannot be punished for this any more than Tyrion can for handing him the goblet.”

“They should both be punished! They killed my son!”

“Dontos and Littlefinger killed your son, Cersei, and I will hear no more about it!” Tywin barks sharply.

“You’ll let them go free?”

“I will. They’ve done no wrong.”

“They-”

“Cersei.” Jaime cuts in almost soothingly, but the woman twists away with a scoff. She storms furiously out of the room, the doors slamming shut behind her, and Jaime looks helplessly at his father.

“She’ll calm down.” Tywin says tightly. “She’s lost a child. Give her time.” He murmurs, and though his words are sympathetic, his voice is not.

 

* * *

 

There are times when Tyrion’s wife is more comfortable in the Capital than she has any right to be.

There are other times when she’s so out of place it’s saddening.

“Come to bed, wife.” He implores, but the girl stays where she is. She’s leaning against the side of the wall, staring out the window and at the sea beyond.

“He would have taken me away.” Sansa says quietly and Tyrion walks over to her, taking her hand in his. “I would have left you here. Dontos would have taken me away, and you’d have been left to take the fall.”

The truth of that makes his heart ache a bit. He knows that if that had happened, his father wouldn’t have defended him like he did today. “But you didn’t go.”

“I want to go, Tyrion.” Sansa blinks tears free, rolling down her cheeks in small rivulets. “I want to leave. To be free of this place.”

“Sansa…” Tyrion trails off helplessly, unsure how to respond to that. “We can’t leave here. You’re still a prisoner, even if I can protect you now. That’s one of many benefits to Joffrey’s death.”

“Don’t say that.” Sansa says softly. “Not where people can hear.”

“No one can hear.”

“We can.”

“I trust you not to betray my confidence.”

“I trust you, too.” Sansa admits, eyes lowering to meet his. They’re red-rimmed and tired, and he pulls gently at her arm.

“Come, wife. You need to rest.”

“I want to leave, Tyrion.” She says bleakly, letting him guide her away from the window. “I want freedom. Please. Help me.”

“I can only do so much, Sansa.” Tyrion says apologetically, pausing at her side of the bed. He urges her down, guiding with gentle touches until she’s lying down. He rounds the bed and lays beside her, watching the tears roll down her face and dampen her pillow. “I’ll speak with my father. Perhaps he’ll let us go to Casterly Rock.”

“No. Not the Rock.” Sansa protests, but her words are slurring with exhaustion.

The essence of nightshade he’d tipped into her water is finally taking effect.

“Where then, my beloved wife?” He asks, reaching up to stroke her hair. “Where will we go?”

She blinks more tears, a tinge of pink to them, and he tenses at the sight. “I want to go to Meereen. I want to see _her.”_ Her eyelids blink heavily, slowly lowering, and Tyrion pets her hair gently.

“Who?” He asks.

She doesn’t respond.

 

* * *

 

There’s about three hours the next day that Dontos swears up and down that Tyrion was involved.

Three hours, and then it ends.

“We had to torture him for the truth.” Tywin tells him darkly. It’s a meeting with the Small Council again, but Jaime and Cersei are gone, and Sansa’s resting heavily from the nightshade. “Cersei promised him his knighthood if he lied for her.”

“How lucky for me that she chose a drunken fool to manipulate.” Tyrion notes dryly, drinking at his wine. He’d almost, _almost,_ lost a taste for it after Joffrey’s admittedly horrifying death. But only almost.

“Why she’s so set against you and your wife I can’t understand, but she’s to be excluded from all proceedings now.”

“What is to be done about this… Littlefinger?” Oberyn questions, frowning deeply.

“I’ve set a bounty on his head. The man is no warrior. He won’t make it to the Eyrie - and if, somehow, he does, there will be plenty of guards ready to make an easy fifty coins.”

“Fifty coins?” Tyrion echoes, blinking. “That much for someone who cannot even defend himself?”

“I do not take the betrayal of my family lightly.” Tywin says severely. “Not only will this ensure his death, but it will remind those who have forgotten that we _always_ pay our debts.”

“Yes.” Oberyn trails lazily, “I suppose you do.”

Tywin stares at him hard for a moment before looking at Tyrion, who speaks before he can.

“My wife wants to leave King’s Landing.” Tyrion tells his father, who pauses at that, lips twisting downwards unpleasantly. “She's my wife now, father. She wants to no longer be our hostage, but our family.”

Tywin stares for a long, tense moment.

“...Leave us.” He commands, the Small Council silently filing out. “You want to go to Casterly Rock.”

“Sansa will bear you your desired heir, father. Let us go home so that it can be born in it’s rightful home.”

“Pycelle has not yet received word from the Citadel. We do not know if she can bear you children safely.”

“She’s had no incidents of bleeding since.” He lies - it’s more or less true. 

“I will consider it.”

“She will be-”  
  
“I said I will consider it.” Tywin cuts him off. “And I will. For now, leave me in peace. I need to think.”

Tyrion grimaces but nods, turning and leaving the room.

He heads for his chambers, finding Sansa still quietly dozing within, and lays down beside her.

There’s a faint staining of red on her pillow where her tears had landed.

In sleep, her face is relaxed and calmer than he ever sees when she’s awake.

 

 

* * *

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's a bit shorter than the others, but I've been super busy. Hope you enjoy it regardless!

Bran dreams.

He always dreams - and every dream ends the same.

A three-eyed raven staring at him, eyes blinking blood red and eerie. 

He goes to sleep hoping to have a good dream - like the times he dreams about his brothers, or being in Summer’s body - but sometimes he wakes up choking on air, gasping for breath that refuses to come to him.

He dreams good dreams and terrible ones, but there’s one person he never dreams about.

Sansa.

“She’s married to the Lannisters now.” Maester Luwin tells him when he asks about her. 

“Sansa Lannister.” He responds and Luwin nods with a heavy sigh.

“W hat are the Lannister words?”

“Hea r Me Roar.”

“Correct.” Luwin praises, smiling his wrinkled face. “Those are your sister’s words now. Hear Me Roar. Winter Is Coming. She is a Lannister and a Stark - but a Lannister first and foremost. She’s married to one, and surrounded by the rest.”

“The Kingslayer and the Queen-Mother.” 

“Yes. Exactly.”

“Why did she marry him?”

“She was forced to, I imagine.” Luwin sighs, tapping his fingers against the table. “Without your father there to protect her, she was left in their hands.”

“I hate them.”

“You’re not wrong to.”

“Why can’t she come back?”

“Because she’s trapped. Lord Tywin Lannister will never let her out of his sight - not with your brother marching on the Capital.” Luwin says heavily.

“Will they win?”

“Who can say? Your brother’s won many battles. Lord Tywin has as well. There is always a chance, my lord.”

“Robb’s last letter spoke of a siege.” 

“King’s Landing would fall to little else. They’re almost upon the city.”

“Will Robb be king?” 

“He already is.”

“What about Stannis Baratheon?”

“His fleet was destroyed. His men died on those ships. I doubt he’ll come back strong enough from that battle to oppose anyone for long.”

“They say he has a woman who talks to fire.”

“So they say.”

“How does someone talk to fire?”

“Through dark magic. Blood magic, the foulest of all.” Luwin says quietly.

“And she does that?”

“She does that, aye. At the loss of many lives.”

“Why do they follow her, then?”

“Because she has magic. And magic is power.”

“I have magic.”

“Don’t speak of that. Your dreams are dreams, nothing more.” Luwin says sharply and Bran scowls.

“But it’s magic.”

“It is  _ not _ magic. Don’t say such things. Your mother would be appalled.”

“Mother isn’t here.” Bran snaps. “She’s out there with Robb and Theon. Sansa’s gone, Arya’s gone, and all I have left is Rickon.”

“They’re still alive, my dear boy. You cannot lose hope for them.” 

“But I never see Sansa.” He sees everyone else, but not Sansa. He even sees Arya sometimes, disguised as a boy as she makes her way to Robb. “Never.”

“You never see anyone, Bran. Your dreams are just that. Dreams. I know you want to see them again, but don’t let that desire confuse you.”

Bran stares at the table and ignores the man’s words.

He doesn’t understand the dreams like Bran does.

But Bran doesn’t understand why he can’t see Sansa.   


 

* * *

 

“Father won’t let us leave.” Tyrion tells his wife, after three days of trying to convince the man. Sansa looks at him with a stricken expression. 

“But we need to leave.”

“Sansa, he won’t allow it. Your brother is nearly upon Harrenhal. With his full force mustered, they’ll be a fortnight from King’s Landing. The city will be under siege sooner than we could have guessed.”

Her expression at this is strained and odd, torn between happiness and grief. “But we have to go.” She whispers. “Tyrion, we  _ must _ go to Meereen.”

“Why are you so set on Meereen? It’s little more than a slave’s city.”

“Not for long.” Sansa protests inexplicably.

“The Targaryen girl? Is this about Daenarys?”

“She’s going to take Meereen. We need to go to her.”

“Why would we go there?”

_ “Tyrion, please!” _ Sansa cries, grasping his arm tightly. Her hand is cold and trembles and fear grips Tyrion, because he knows by now what that preludes to. 

“Calm down, Sansa, please.”

“No! I can’t calm down! Not until you promise me! Promise me, Tyrion, promise me we’ll go.” Sansa begs, a drop of blood forming at her nose. Her grip is so hard it hurts and he half-expects himself to be bleeding from her nails. “Tyrion,  _ please!” _

“Calm down, Sansa. You can’t let yourself get so worked up.” He reaches with his free hand, grabbing a napkin from the table and pressing it to her nose just in time to catch a falling bead of bleed. “I’ll consider it, Sansa, but why? Why must we go?”

“I can’t.” Sansa says shakily, the fight bleeding out of her. She sways dangerously and Tyrion hastily urges her towards the bed. “I can’t say. It’s too hard, Tyrion.” Sansa sobs, dropping on the side of the bed and covering her face with her hands. He keeps the napkin pressed to her nose, free hand reaching up to wrap around her shoulders. “It’s so hard. How am I supposed to do this when it’s so  _ difficult _ to do a thing?”

“What are you talking about, Sansa?” He asks helplessly, but all she can do is shake her head. “Explain it to me, please.”

“I can’t. I can’t explain anything.” Sansa’s voice goes bleak, her shoulders slumping, and when she pulls her hands away, they’re bloody. The blood mostly only comes from her nose, with a faint tinge of pink to her tears, and Tyrion wipes it away with his napkin. 

He does it in slow, meticulous movements, and Sansa’s breathing slowly begins to even out, though it keeps a shakiness to it. 

“I can’t explain it.” Sansa says quietly. “But we need to go.”

He doesn’t understand why, but it’s obviously terribly important to the girl.

“...I’ll consider it,” he promises as he wipes away her blood. “I’ll consider it, but that’s all I can promise.”

“Then it’ll be enough.” Sansa says tiredly. She turns away from him, laying down on the bed and curling her feet up. “I’m sorry, husband. I need to rest.”

“I’ll be back with essence of nightshade, Sansa, so that you can rest well.”

“I’m sick of it.” Sansa tells him and he sighs, setting the ruined napkin aside.

“I know. But it helps you.”

“It dulls me.”

“Nothing could ever dull you.”

Sansa shoots him an unimpressed look and he sighs.

“Fine. We’ll forgo the nightshade. Will you rest regardless?” 

“I’ll rest.” Sansa promises, exhaling a slow breath. “I’m exhausted anyways.”

“Sleep, Sansa. Rest and sleep. Everything will be brighter on the morrow.” Tyrion lies, petting her hair as she lays back down.

She snorts unforgivingly, turning her head away from him and pressing it to the pillow. Her eyes are red-rimmed and her stare is almost hunted as she looks out the distant window. “We have to go, Tyrion.”

“So you’ve said, Sansa.” He says, a bit helplessly.

“She told me, Tyrion. She  _ told me _ that it would be hard.” Blood trickles from her nose and Tyrion hastily catches it in the napkin, grimacing. “But not impossible.” Sansa whispers, reaching up with a trembling hand to hold the napkin. Tyrion shifts his grip from the napkin to her hand, clutching the trembling flesh. “It’s not impossible. Is it?” She murmurs.

Tyrion just watches silent and helpless, having no answer for the girl.

 

* * *

 

 

Sansa’s mad.

She knows it better than anyone around her. 

It’s her mind, after all, and she knows she’s lost it. Lost it and left it buried in the dirt.

_ “Beyond the sea, beyond the sea,” _ Sansa sings quietly, perched on her window seat and watching the seagulls fly over the Blackwater.  _ “My heart is gone, far, far from me; and ever on its tracks will flee; my thoughts, my dreams, beyond the sea.” _

She’s lost her mind. She lost it long ago, years before she remembered why. She was a girl when she remembered, but even before that, she had been mad.  _ “Beyond the sea, beyond the sea, the swallow wanders fast and free,”  _ Sansa hums quietly between words.  _ “Oh, happy bird! Were I like thee; I, too, would fly beyond the sea.” _

She lost it on the day she watched her brother die. She lost it on the day she held Arya, bleeding to death in her arms. 

She lost it on the day Jon fell to the Night King, fighting until his very last breath. 

_ “Beyond the sea, beyond the sea, are kindly hearts and social glee; but here for me they may not be; my heart is gone beyond the sea.” _ She muses the final words, closing her eyes for a moment. The sea breeze washes away the stink of King’s Landing, bringing salty air to her nose, and she inhales it slowly. 

The wind tickles at her hair, the air gentle and warm. Too warm, more often than not, but Sansa knows that won’t last.

She opens her eyes and sees King’s Landing covered in snow and the Blackwater frozen over.

She blinks and the cold is gone - for the moment.

But not forever.

Never forever.

It’ll come soon enough, she knows. The fall of the Wall and the rise of a dead dragon.

They lost the moment the Wall broke, it’s magic shattered by the magic of a desecrated dragon. 

They’d lost to the Long Winter, but there was still enough magic left for Melisandre to carry her away in the flames. 

The fire had been a welcome burn, and she’d flown away from her own body like a bird soaring through the air. 

And then she’d woken up, and things started over again.

The summer breeze tickles at her hair, and she smiles at the feel of it.

“Winter is coming,” Sansa says softly.

“So they say. ”

She blinks and turns her head to see Tyrion entering the room, Podrick a step behind him with a platter full of food.

Sansa smiles, moving to stand, but Tyrion waves her down. “Pod, move the table closer. We’ll eat at the window today.” Tyrion declares before he climbs up onto the window seat, sitting opposite of him. His small stature lets him fit perfectly in the gap she leaves, and her smile grows in width and warmth. 

When Podrick offers her a plate of cheese and crackers, she takes it cheerfully.

Winter is coming, but it isn’t here yet.

 

* * *

 


	7. Chapter 7

Tyrion, Sansa is starting to realize, is not enough.

He can’t give her what she needs, and there’s only one person she can think of who could.

“Lord Varys.” She greets idly, like she hadn’t come down to the dungeons for this very purpose. 

“My lady Sansa. How ever could I be of assistance to you?” He asks politely and Sansa smiles softly at him, raising the candle she holds. It’s dark in the dungeons, but the poor lighting doesn’t frighten her. 

“I have a request, Lord Varys.” She starts, then pauses for a moment. “I hear you’re a man of many interests.”

“You’ll have to be more specific, I’m afraid.” Varys murmurs and Sansa smiles.

“I have interests of my own. Ones that are headed for Mereen as we speak.”

The smile fades from Varys’ face, replaced by a small, confused frown. “I’m sorry, but I haven’t a clue of what you speak, my lady. What interest could the far east possibly hold for you, lady Sansa?”

She arches a brow at him, frowning. “My brother will never be king.” She says flatly.

Varys goes still, blinking his too-warm eyes at her slowly. 

“King of the North, yes, he’s proven that much - but he will never be king of Westeros. Not the least of which because he doesn’t want it.”

“King Robert didn’t want to be king, either.” Varys points out. “And look where that’s led us.”

“Yes. Look where that’s led us.” Sansa takes a sip of wine - tinged with just a hint of essence of nightshade. Just enough to keep her calm. It’s a test, to determine if she can ward off her… episodes. “My brother doesn’t want the kingdom, he just wants it out of Lannister hands.”

“One could argue that your hands are Lannister hands now, my lady.”

“I’m only as much a Lannister as my husband is.” Sansa says idly, turning her glass in her hand. The motion reminds her of Cersei, who spends much of her time these days playing with glasses of wine. “My brother doesn’t want the kingdom, Lord Varys. Listen to me.” Sansa’s voice rises slightly and she winces, an ache rushing through her. She takes a deep breath to calm herself, slow and disguised as gathering her thoughts instead of her  _ wits _ . “The kingdom belongs to another. My brother wants the Lannisters overthrown, but he doesn’t know who he wants to take their place.”

“And who do you want to replace them?” Varys asks slowly, peering at her with an odd, curious expression. A hint of concern. Perhaps she isn’t hiding her struggle as well as she’d thought. Her mind aches with her heartbeat, the essence of nightshade only serving to keep her from an  _ outburst. _

It’s a struggle, for a moment, to get the words out. Every time it’s a struggle, but this time, it’s a little bit easier. “Daenerys Stormborn. The Mother of Dragons.”

Varys smiles an odd little smile. “Now, that seems like an interesting idea, Lady Sansa.”

She smiles tightly back.   


 

* * *

 

She only makes it halfway back to her quarters. The essence of nightshade is powerful, not something to be toyed with, and while it had saved her from a bloody nose and a miserable headache, it had also left her dizzy and unsteady on her feet. She ends up sitting down on a staircase not far from the dungeons. 

It’s not Tyrion who finds her, but a helpful guard, who half-carries her to the Maester.

“You mixed these?” Pycelle grumbles as he gives her glass of wine a baleful look. “Such combinations should be used sparingly, my lady. It’s a dangerous mixture.”

“My apologies, Grand Maester.” Sansa says tiredly from the bed. 

“Have you had any more bleeding episodes?”

“None.” She lies smoothly. 

“Now, don’t lie to me, girl.” He grumbles. “I need to know for your own safety.”

“I’ve had none.” She reassures him, smiling wanly. 

“Hmph.” The man mumbles something but nods, seeming to take her answer as truth. “Now, don’t mix these and go walking about again, my lady.” He harrumphs again, taking the glass from her. “In small doses, in your own quarters, the combination is safe enough. But don’t try wandering around.”

“I won’t, Grand Maester.” She promises.

She more or less means it.   
  


* * *

 

The essence of nightshade gives her sleep, but even it can’t take away her dreams. Every night is another nightmare. Every morning another question of her sanity. 

But she sleeps as all men must sleep, and she dreams as all who’ve seen war must dream.

She dreams of death, of loss. Of cradling Arya’s broken body in her arms and screaming as Jon struggles to keep away the undying horde at their gates.

_ “Why, Arya?! Why?!”  _ She wails, bitter and broken.  _ Why did you fight them, Arya, why didn’t you just stay back?  _ She wonders, but her bloody, torn throat can’t voice. 

_ “Valar morghulis.” _ Arya whispers in her ear, a bloody smile as she touches Sansa’s cheek. The hand trembles and falls, too weak to stay up for long, and the streak of blood it leaves behind is cold in the frigid winds.

Sansa weeps and Sansa wails, but Arya eventually goes still in her arms. 

Sansa watches, unmoving, as Jon screams at her to run. To run and don’t look back, Sansa, just  _ run. _

Sansa doesn’t move, and she blinks tears as the Night King clashes with Jon, the undead warring around them. 

Dragons screech overhead, fire and ice clashing in the sky, and warmth touches Sansa’s shoulder.

_ “Come with me,”  _ Melisandre whispers.  _ “Come with me. Into the fire.”  _

The hand on her shoulder pulls and Sansa rises, Arya tumbling from her grasp and blood soaked arms trembling in the freezing air. 

_ “Come with me.” _ Melisandre says fiercely.

Together, they step into the dragon’s fire.

 

* * *

 

Sansa dreams the dreams that no one else could possibly imagine, but she doesn’t wake up gasping. She wakes up slow, warmth cradling her instead of ice, fire crackling in the distance instead of around her body, and the gentle clinking of wine glasses instead of swords on the battlefield. “My wife.” Tyrion greets warmly and she smiles, sitting up and brushing the furs away. “Come. Sit with me.” He gestures to the chair across from him. He’s sitting at their table, Podrick carefully laying out food for them. Sansa smiles wider, offering Tyrion a fond look. He returns her smile with a small, but no less warm one. 

“Podrick. Leave me to dress.” She instructs, when the last plate is laid out. Podrick bows quickly and leaves with little fuss. She stands once he’s gone, still naked from her night with Tyrion, and carefully robes herself.

“You look beautiful.” Tyrion greets her as she sits across from him. She smiles, drawing her hair over one shoulder before taking up her drink. 

It’s halfway to her mouth before she realizes. She lowers the cup, eyeing it strangely, and Tyrion eyes her strangely in turn.

“Is something the matter?”

“My moo n tea.” Sansa says, her voice sounding distant to her own ears. Disbelief ripples through her, with fear at its heels. “Something’s wrong with it.”

“What?” Tyrion stands up, taking the tea with one hand and peering at it. “I don’t see anything amiss.”

“It shouldn’t be so cloudy.” Sansa explains, and his eyes narrow. He turns the cup, eyeing it from several angles, before looking up at her seriously. 

“You’re certain it’s not simply sat too long?”

“I’m absolutely positive, Tyrion.” She murmurs urgently. “Who made my tea this morning? Podrick?”

“Podrick usually fetches it from the kitchens…” Tyrion says, a bit distractedly. He sets the cup on the table and moves to the doorway. Sansa snatches the cup back up, eyeing it warily, while Tyrion calls for Podrick.

There’s a long minute of silence before Tyrion speaks. “Where did you get Sansa’s tea this morning? Was it anything different than usual?” He demands in an urgent whisper.

“Um. No, milord, nothing unusual.” Sansa stands up and moves to the window, eyeing it in the sunlight. She turns it slowly, taking in the odd cloudiness and discovering a faint discoloration as she does. “Wait.” Podrick says suddenly. “The woman who gives it to me. She looked a little sick. I asked if she were comin’ down with something, milord, but she barely said a word. Just closed the door in my face. She’s pretty secretive, but that was odd even for her.”

“I see.” Tyrion looks back at her and she looks up from the cup, lips pressed tight together. “Stay here.” He instructs, eyes narrowing. “Bar the door behind me. Let no one but me or my father in. Do  _ not _ drink that cup, my lady.”

“I won’t, husband.” Sansa promises tightly. Tyrion nods and leaves with Podrick, Sansa setting the cup down and locking the door behind them. She moves back to the table, sitting down and staring intently at the cup.

She almost hadn’t noticed.

 

* * *

 

“Poison.” Tywin Lannister sneers down at the cup. Pycelle and Tyrion are in the room with her and her good father, with Jaime guarding the door and watching with narrowed eyes. 

“The Gentle Goodnight, from the scent.” Pycelle huffs out, examining the cup at length. Sansa sits by the window, watching with arms folded across her chest and gnawing her lip. Tyrion stands just beside her, frowning deeply. “Easily hidden in most teas, but this is moon tea. It’s scent shouldn’t be even remotely flowery, nor the color this cloudy and dark. In any other tea, it might just appear oversteeped, but in this case, the alteration is obvious.” Pycelle concludes with a nod.

“And what does this poison do?” Tyrion demands.

“Well, it causes…” Pycelle pauses, trailing off, and frowns.

“Causes what?” Tywin asks archly.

“Well.” Pycelle clears his throat uncomfortably. “Uncontrollable bleeding from the eyes, ears, and nose.”

Silence rings in the room.

“So it was to be disguised as my suspected bleeding disorder.” Sansa says flatly.

“And just how many have knowledge of this supposed disorder?” Tyrion follows immediately, eyes narrowing and fists clenching.

Silence falls again, but this time, it’s Tywin who breaks it.

“No one but the family.” He says in a dangerously calm sort of way.

Sansa blinks slowly, unsurprised, but Tyrion sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, and even Jaime stills in the doorway. 

“Cersei.”

 

* * *

 

“Something must be done.” Tyrion says coldly, pacing in Tywin’s solar. Jaime stands at the door, leaning against the wall with a surprisingly troubled expression. Tywin watches Tyrion with a flat gaze that only makes him angrier. “She tried to kill my wife!” Tyrion snarls, enraged.

“Yes, I heard.” Tywin says coolly. “And she failed.”

“That hardly matters! If we leave this alone, she’ll only try again with a different poison!” Of that, Tyrion is more than sure. He’s  _ certain _ of it, and Tywin must be as well, but the man just watches him coldly. “Do you even care?!” Tyrion barks, which is a stupid question. Of course he doesn’t care what happens to Tyrion’s wife - the wife of the son he loathes. But… “She’s the only Stark we have. The only piece we can use against the rebellion. And Cersei is about to murder her because you refuse to do anything.” Tyrion bites out furiously.

For a long moment, tense silence fills the room. Slowly, Tywin lowers his cup of wine and stares at Tyrion flatly. There’s a hint of emotion, buried away in there, but Tyrion can’t quite identify it.

“There’s nothing I can do.” Tywin says eventually, sweeping on before Tyrion can lose his temper. “Harrenhal fell last night.”

Tyrion blinks, the news bringing him to a halt.

“The Starks will be upon us in a fortnight, and we have as well as lost this war.”

Tyrion stares at his father, mouth moving uselessly for a moment. Jaime shifts behind him, armor creaking, and Tyrion leans back, staring. “We still have Dorne.”

“Hardly.” Tywin rises and turns away from them, looking out his window and holding his wine goblet in front of him. “Dorne will turn the moment they hear the news, if they haven’t already. The only reason they stood with us this long is to get close to us.. By the time night falls, we’ll be hearing news that Oberyn has betrayed us in some way. Perhaps he’ll even kill one of us before he goes. Gods know he wants to.”

Tyrion watches numbly as Tywin lifts his goblet, calmly drinking from it.

“I cannot do anything about Cersei. I cannot send her away. The Kingsroad will be seized by the Starks within days. The seas are potentially open, but where would I send her? For all we know, Stannis and the remains of his fleet still haunt of the waters between King’s Landing and Dragonstone. No matter what, I would be sending my daughter to her death.”

“She nearly killed my wife.” Tyrion says tightly, but the words feel dwarfed in the magnitude of  _ everything else _ happening.  _ Harrenhal is lost,  _ echoes in his mind.

_ Harrenhal is lost. _

“I will confine her to her quarters. Jaime, you are the only one capable of reeling her in - guard her. Ensure she sends no one off to poison your goodsister.” Tywin commands in that flat tone of his. “Keep an eye on her handmaidens.”

“Yes, father.” Jaime says in an odd, slightly off tone.

Babysitting his lovely sister must be an uncomfortable duty, Tyrion thinks, barely repressing a snort of disgust.

“Leave us.” Tywin commands.

Jaime bows slightly before he turns and does, the door closing a little too hard behind him. 

“I believe you’ve displeased him.” Tyrion notes dryly.

“Let him be displeased. I have instructions for you.” Tywin turns now, his eyes blazing and his jaw set, and Tyrion  _ knows _ he isn’t going to like this. “We have a fortnight to spare. Get that girl to Casterly Rock. They’ll have seized the Kingsroad, but the Goldroad will be safe if you leave  _ immediately. _ We  _ cannot _ lose our only bargaining chip.”

“She’s your gooddaughter and you would risk her life out there?” Tyrion demands, glaring at his father, who glares heatedly back. “We’ll be sitting ducks.”

“I’ll send a small guardforce with you.” Tywin turns around again, dismissively, but sweeps on to a new subject. “It’ll take a year and a half at the least for King’s Landing to fall under seige. The Starks don’t have the numbers, but they are more intelligent than I gave them credit for. King’s Landing will survive for a maximum of three years. Get that girl pregnant, Tyrion. Unfortunately, you’ve somehow become the last hope for keeping the Lannister line alive.” 

Even with his back to him, Tyrion can hear the sneer in his father’s voice.

Even when facing death, the man still manages to reinforce his hate in his youngest child.

“Let me promise you something, father.” Tyrion sneers back, anger making him feel hot all over. “Whatever children Sansa and I have, no matter how afflicted or  _ normal _ they are, we will love them far more than you were ever capable of.”

Silence reigns for a moment before he hears his father’s fingers tap against his cup.

“Love has no place in war, boy.”

“I’m certain we’ll find a way.” Tyrion spits, then turns on his heel. “Unlike you, father, I won’t blame infants for the death of their mother, if it comes to that.”

His father is silent, and Tyrion leaves the solar with a furious slamming of the door.

 

* * *

 

Sansa patiently waits for him, as she is wont to do. Her never ending patience, which usually makes him smile, makes him only angrier now as he paces their room.

He’s not angry with Sansa - of course not - but rather, the constant mistreatment of her.

“Forgive me, Sansa.” He says, when he’s finally worn himself out and stops to see her watching him in silent concern.

“There’s nothing to forgive.” She says gently, offering a hand to him. He takes it and she draws him close, pressing her forehead to his for a moment. Then she pulls away, thumb rubbing over the knuckles of his hand. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

He snorts, unable to help himself. “What isn’t wrong?”

It’s unhelpful but she doesn’t say that, silently waiting for him to speak.

It takes him a moment to gather his thoughts. “Father is sending us to Casterly Rock.”

As expected, the blood drains from her face at this. She bites her lip, staring at him warily, and waits for him to continue.

“Your brother has taken Harrenhal. We have an opening of a few short days to take the Goldroad to Casterly Rock. King’s Landing will be under siege in a fortnight.”

Sansa stares at him for a long moment before swallowing thickly. “Shouldn’t he be sending Cersei and Jaime to safety?”

“Cersei and Jaime?” Tyrion bites back what he immediately wants to say, then settles for a less crude version. “He doesn’t care nearly enough about his children for that. All he cares about is continuing the Lannister line, and with Cersei trying to  _ kill _ you, she’s not exactly helping the situation. No, she’ll remain here. As for Jaime, he’s no doubt refused outright to abandon his ‘King’ to the siege about to happen.”

Sansa looks away from him at last, turning to face the window instead. For a moment, it reminds him of his father in the man’s solar - but Sansa’s pose emits worry and calm whereas his had only indicated anger and disgust.

Silence fills the room, tense and uneasy, and it’s several minutes before it’s broken.

“I won’t go to Casterly Rock.”

Tyrion sighs heavily, grabbing the nearest chair and twisting it around to face her. He perches on it, folding his arms across his chest. “No. I assumed as much.” He admits. “Where shall we go, then, wife?” He asks tiredly.

“Will your father be sending soldiers with us?”

“Soldiers loyal to Casterly Rock.”

“We’ll have to escape them, then.” Sansa says decisively. She turns to face him, and the fire in her eyes takes his breath away. “I have a plan.”

Tyrion listens.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I've been away so long. Between other stories, college, and real life woes, I simply don't have enough time on my hands!
> 
> Anyways, as always, I hope you enjoyed =)


	8. Chapter 8

Sansa stands by their window, sipping a glass of wine as she stares out over the ocean. It’s something she rarely indulges in, but right now, deep in thought, it soothes her.

 _“Don’t fight in the North, or the South.”_ Baelish had once taught her. A lesson that had actually helped her in this life, and the last. _“Fight every battle, everywhere, always, in your mind. Everyone is your enemy, everyone is your friend… every possible series of events is happening all at once. Live that way, and nothing will surprise you.”_

 _“Everything that happens will be something that you’ve seen before.”_ She smiles softly, slowly turning the glass in her hand.

“Everything that happens with be something that you’ve seen before.” She whispers, staring at the gulls flying through the air. Not for the first time, she wishes she could fly with them - free and careless, leaving her woes and torment behind.

But Joffrey’s dead, and her torment has eased.

In his place, Tywin Lannister has raised up, threatening her and Tyrion with his presence - and more.

 _I have years,_ she reminds herself as she sips at her wine. _Little time to plan, but years to act it out._

And plan, she had.

Sansa has spent years planning and plotting, and time passes by at the speed of a soaring crow. And sometimes, at the speed of a limping turtle.

_Robb will win this war, but he won’t want the throne._

Of that, she’s sure. She hasn’t seen her brother in years, but she’s _sure,_ and that’s all that matters.

 _Who, then, will take it? Daenerys? Jon? No, Daenerys._ Sansa determines, frowning out the window. _Jon will fight on the Wall. He will fight the frozen north and bring fire and blood to the frigid wasteland. Daenerys will fight in the east, and bring fire and blood to the burning sands._

 _Ice and fire,_ Sansa thinks.

_Ice and fire._

 

* * *

 

 

Tyrion packs their things as hastily as he can, readying the wagon and debating over who should guide the steeds. “I will,” Sansa tells him with confidence, and how can he say no to her?

“We won’t be needing a wheelhouse, then.”

“No.”

It’s a smart move, he decides after some contemplation, packing away only Sansa’s warmest dresses and his thickest tunics.

With Sansa guiding the carriage, no one will stop them.

“Are you certain we should do this, Sansa?” He asks, not for the first time. He pauses with his hands on the edge of the trunk, looking over at her. Her back is to him as she packs away the rest of their things - but only the important things, and the most sentimental.

“Yes. Are you?” She asks without looking back at him.

“Not at all.” He says without hesitation, exhaling a harsh breath. “I’m going to my death.”

“There’s no where you can go that you wouldn’t be going to your death, husband.” She says in an almost amused tone.

It’s true. Painfully true.

Enemies surround King’s Landing at all sides. The only _possible_ place they could go without being killed is Dorne, and Tyrion knows without a doubt that Oberyn is playing a snake in the grass.

He’s just biding his time, waiting to strike and earn his revenge for Elia.

Tyrion pauses, nearly dropping the dress in his hands. He considers for a moment, then looks at Sansa. “Wife.” He calls her attention, and this time she looks to him, somewhat curious at his thoughtful tone. “I believe we may have overlooked something. A potential ally.”

Sansa’s eyes gleam.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s her who goes to him, not Tyrion. No, Tyrion going would be asking for trouble.

Sansa finds him in the sparring yard, lecturing a group of his guards on their spearwork.

She waits, patiently waits, until finally, Oberyn turns around mid-sentence and notices her.

For a moment, he doesn’t even seem to. He continues talking, turns back around, and ignores her for several minutes. “Now, practice what I just told you.” He commands of his troops.

Finally, he turns back around and approaches her. “Lady Lannister.” He greets mildly, eyes dark and searching.

“I prefer Stark.” Sansa admits freely, but quietly. One never knows when a guard might overhear.

“And yet, you are a Lannister.” He points out, setting his spear against the ground and leaning on it. The blade glints in the sunlight, but Sansa merely smiles at him, unperturbed. “What might I assist you with, Lady Lannister?”

“I have a plan, you see. It’s a very good plan, but one you might be interested in. Would you like to hear it?” She asks lightly, offering him a grin that shows more teeth than necessary.

He stares at her for a moment, eyes glinting, before he leans in. “Tell me more, Lady Stark.”

 

* * *

 

Sansa Stark reminds him of Elia. A sweet, young woman, trapped away in King’s Landing. The Mad King tormented Elia, and while Oberyn only saw some of it, he could see the way Joffrey tormented Sansa in turn.

A sweet girl, but unlike Elia, she didn’t let the torment change her. Where Elia had crumpled into a shade of her former self, Sansa had risen up, always reaching higher.

She proves it to him face to face, when they’ve retired to his office and indulged in a small amount of wine.

“My brother will win this war.” Sansa says with the utmost confidence, fiery hair pulled over one shoulder, and she lounges in her chair like it was made for her. Just as Oberyn does to his own, he reflects wryly. “But he does not want the throne. Not even remotely. He’ll take it, though, if we do not have someone else in place to do so.”

“And you have a suggestion, I imagine?” Oberyn muses, watching her with careful eyes. Her face betrays nothing but confidence, a hint of a smile playing at her pale lips.

“We’ve all heard rumors of Daenerys Targaryen.” Oberyn stiffens immediately. “Rightful heir to the Iron Throne, and more importantly, a woman on a mission to claim it.” Sansa sips at her wine, frowning. “She has power. She has an army. She has three dragons. And most importantly, she wants to rule.”

“Desire to rule does not make a good ruler.” Oberyn says flatly, no longer interested in his wine. “I would not see another Targaryen on the throne.”

“You would blame a woman for the crimes of her father, who died before she was even born?” Sansa questions softly. “You would see her start a new war, so soon after this one ends, instead of attempting a peaceful resolution?” Oberyn’s grip tightens on his glass. “She has dragons, Prince Oberyn. Three of them - and they will grow far larger than-” She cuts off, looking uncomfortable, before grasping a handkerchief and pressing it to her nose - just as Oberyn catches a flash of red. “Than they already have.” Sansa concludes shakily.

Her hand trembles.

Oberyn watches her uncomfortably, his anger fading at yet another reminder of his sister. Sickly and weak, Sansa suddenly looks small and fragile, much as his sister had. “Are you unwell?” He asks softly and she offers him a tiny smile.

“Yes.” She admits freely, dabbing gently at her nose. “But that is not what I’m here to discuss.”

“No.” Oberyn agrees, eyes narrowing. Concern prickles at him, but so too does anger. “You’re discussing me allowing the Mad King’s daughter taking the Iron Throne.”

“My brother would not make a good king. She would make a wonderful queen.” More blood, more shakiness, and Oberyn’s eyes narrow further.

“My lady, you are unwell. Perhaps we should discuss this later.”

“I’d rather not.” She refutes, dabbing at the twin streams of blood. There’s a hint of desperation flickering in her face now, and something inside him softens. “Prince Oberyn, I won’t ask you to help us put a Targaryen on the throne. I understand why you are so reluctant to allow such a thing. But I would ask of you one thing.”

“And what might that be, Lady Sansa?”

“Send someone to her.” Sansa implores softly. “Send a spy, send an emissary, send an advisor - send someone to see Daenerys for who she really is. Send someone to learn about her, her motives, her way of thinking, and then, when they report back their findings, send someone to me to tell me that you support my cause.”

The absolute, unwavering confidence of the girl leaves him silent for a long minute.

“It… is not an unreasonable request.” He admits very, very slowly. “I do not see any reason _not_ to do so. But why would I? I do not support a Targaryen claim, and I doubt that will change in the future.”

“Then there is no harm in learning more about her.” Sansa points out, the bleeding coming to an end. She lowers the cloth, settling it in her lap. “If nothing else, learn about your enemy, because she _will_ come to conquer Westeros. It’s only a matter of time, and a matter of who will stand by her when she does.”

Oberyn’s dark eyes narrow again, this time in suspicious. “And the Starks would be one of those?”

“I don’t know.” Sansa admits freely, offering him a wry smile. “I haven’t been able to speak to them in years, locked away in this horrid place. My husband…” She trails off for a moment, frowning. “He’s kind to me. Far kinder than the Lannisters.”

“He is a Lannister.”

“Is he?” Sansa questions, arching a brow. “Have you ever seen they treat him as a Lannister? His own sister plotted to have him killed. Plotted to murder me, his wife. And you know as well as I do that her brother was not oblivious to these plots.” Sansa points out, drawing a dark frown from Oberyn. “My husband is taking me away from this horrible place. He’s taking me back to my family, back to my brothers and sister.”

“Your sister is missing.”

“She’s made her way home again.” Sansa contradicts, then glances past him and frowns. “Or will, soon enough. As for myself, my husband will take me to them.”

“And you trust his word?”

“No. I trust him to follow mine.” Sansa smiles at Oberyn, an amused smile that makes her look even younger than she is. “I’ve told him where we’re going. He’s complaining that he’s going to die, but he’s loading our carriage regardless. He loves me, Prince Oberyn, and I him.” She softens. “Just as you love you paramour, and she loves you. Is there anything you wouldn’t do to save her from this wretched place? Even if it risked your life?”

Oberyn stares at her for a very long minute before sighing, lifting his glass and taking a gulp of the wine.

“No.” he admits at last. “There is nothing I would not do. You truly believe him unlike the rest of the Lannisters?”

“I _know_ it, Prince Oberyn. I know it deep in my heart and beyond. He would never allow harm to come to me, even if it meant risking his own death. He’s freeing me from this prison, and he is _taking me home.”_ She says heavily.

Oberyn taps his fingers against his wine glass, peering down at it consideringly before eventually looking back up at her. “Very well. I will do as you ask, and send an emissary to this Dragon Queen.” Sansa sags slightly with relief. “I will come to the truth of this, and then I will consider the options for my homeland.”

“Thank you, Prince Oberyn. I could not ask more of you.” Sansa says with a sudden tiredness to her voice. He peers at her intently, finding her pale and her breathing slightly unsteady.

After a moment’s consideration, he stands up and circles his desk, stopping beside her and offering her his arm. “Come. Let us return you to your quarters, before you faint on my desk.”

She smiles wanly and takes his arm.

 

* * *

 

 

There’s a light in the world that once was dark.

It dances around Sansa, hissing and crackling, and she spins around with a laugh.

It surrounds her, warm and tingly, and for a long minute, all she can feel is joy.

And then the fire closes in on her, searing and burning, and her laughter turns into screams, her joy turning to ashes, and all around her, the world burns.

 _Come with me,_ she says so sweetly, like music in her ears.

 _Come with me,_ a hand on hers, tugging her deeper into the fire. Sansa wails, her voice hoarse like she’s been screaming for days. Her throat choked and clogged, full of smoke and her own blood. Every scream is torn from her. Every laughter a lie.

 _Come with me,_ the woman pulls her, _into the fire._

Sansa burns.

She wakes up reborn.

  


* * *

 

 

“You were dreaming.” Tyrion says, sitting beside her on the bed. She blinks at him, barely recognizing the cloth wiping under her eyes.

Red blood streaks it, ruining the white handkerchief.

Tyrion lowers it to his lap, staring at it for a long moment in indecision. “It’s getting worse. I shouldn’t be taking you away from the Grand Maester.”

“Pah.” Sansa says, hoarse and unladylike. “The Grand Maester doesn’t know how to treat women inside or outside of medicine.” She snorts softly. Tyrion smiles a bit, but it’s brittle and his gaze is uneasy.

“You’re getting worse, Sansa. You’ve never bled in your sleep before.”

“I’ll be fine.” Sansa says.

She knows it’s a lie.

They’re getting closer now, changing too much.

It’s a good thing.

It’s also killing her.

 

* * *

 

They do not take the Goldroad west.

They steal away in the night instead, buying off a discrete wagon and heading down the Kingsroad.

“I’m going to die.” Tyrion complains as they ride in the front of the wagon. Sansa holds the reins, shooting her husband an amused look.

“If they try, just hide in my skirts, dear husband.”

He looks at her, amused and eyes glimmering. “Well, if you’re inviting me to, on we must go with haste.”

She laughs and so does he, quiet but more carefree than they’ve ever laughed in King’s Landing.

They’re leaving the wretched city for good, and not even Robb sitting on the throne will drag her back to that hell.

“We’ll go to Winterfell.” Sansa says, remembering a ruined city and being raped and tortured night after night after _night._

But she also remembers ruling in Jon’s stead.

She also remembers that none of these things have, or will, happen.

Theon Greyjoy never betrayed them and overtook the city. Ramsay Snow never earned his Bolton name by taking it back. The Boltons never took the city for themselves.

The Red Wedding never happened, and Sansa is days away from seeing her brother and mother again.

She reaches out and takes Tyrion’s hand with her free one.

He squeezes it tightly back.

They’ll try to come for them, but Robb’s army will stand in their way.

For the first time in so many, many years, they’re _free._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed ♥


	9. Chapter 9

Sansa dreams of ice and dancing in fire. She dreams of life being stripped away, and death rising up in it’s place.

She’s a mad woman born in a mad time. She’s a mad woman, and were anyone to know even the half of it, they’d execute her in a moment.

Except Jon and Tyrion. Jon, who had listened to her every word from day one, and Tyrion, who was growing to listen more and more.

She’s a mad woman, but they are her mad men, always waiting for the next strange thing to drops from her lips.

Robb has not that patience, her mother has always urged her to keep herself quiet.

It does nothing to dull the joy of their reunion.

“Mother.  _ King Robb.” _ She greets so happily she could cry, a teasing smile alighting her face.

“Sansa!” Her mother cries, dragging her into the tightest hug of her life.

“Sansa.” Tyrion says in a much different tone of voice. Sansa pulls back, blinking, and immediately frowns.

There are countless swords and bows aimed and readied at her husband.

“Lower your weapons.” She barks out so sharply that a few of them actually do, and more than that waver for a moment. “My husband is the only reason I got out of King’s Landing alive.” She whips around to look at Robb, imploring and commanding at once. “He saved me from Joffrey’s beatings. He saved me from Joffrey’s  _ humiliations. _ He’s protected me, and loved me, and I love him.”

“Sansa.” Catelyn says, looking stricken. “He’s a Lannister.”

“As much of a Lannister as I am.” Sansa bites back sharply, stepping back and placing herself between Tyrion and as many of the others as she can. Catelyn looks hurt and uneasy, but Robb’s eyes are narrowed in deep thought. “Cersei tried to poison me. Tyrion smuggled us out of King’s Landing before she could try anything else.” Sansa implores. “Please, he’s my husband, and I truly do love him - and he truly does love me.”

The protest continues on both ends, with Catelyn pleading, Robb staring, and Sansa glaring fiercely at anyone aiming a weapon at her husband.

“Enough.” Robb eventually says, and Catelyn cuts off with a harsh hiss of her teeth. She looks away, like she can’t bear to watch them for a moment longer, then sends her son an expectant look. “He can stay.” Robb says, and Catelyn’s expression tightens. The weapons lower and Sansa relaxes, turning to help Tyrion down from the wagon. 

He does so warily, watching the men who had been threatening his life just seconds ago, and then looks at Catelyn and Robb. Robb turns, whispering into Catelyn ear for several long moments. 

Eventually, Sansa’s mother turns her head away from them all, and Robb returns his attention to them. Or, more specifically, to Tyrion. “You saved my sister?” He inquires calmly, but his eyes are narrowed dangerously. “You kept her safe?”

“No one has touched her since I arrived in King’s Landing. No one has tormented her since I wedded her.” Tyrion assures him calmly.

“Including your king?” Robb asks archly and Tyrion stares him down.

“Particularly the king, while we had the misfortune of having him rule. Luckily for us, Tommen is a much more gentle child that Joffrey ever was.”

“Are you telling me we ought to spare him?” Robb questions tensely and Tyrion’s silver tongue gets to work.

“I’m telling you it would be unwise to kill a fourteen year old boy who has only just recently inherited the Throne, and has not yet used it for any harm.” Tyrion implores with a frown. “He’s everything Joffrey lacked. He’s a kind, sweet hearted boy, who knows nothing of the tragedies of war. He’ll understand soon, and I assure you, he’ll do anything to stop it. Even if it means surrendering the crown to save his people.” Tyrion pauses for a brief second. “It’s my sister and father who are the problems.”

“That’s quite the understatement.” Robb arches a brow at him, frowning. “And what would you suggest we do against your beloved family.” He gestures with a finger, crooking it for them to follow, and silently, Sansa, Tyrion, and Catelyn follow him through the cluster of men. They stop when they reach the biggest tent of the camp, a large table in the middle of it, and Robb rounds it with Catelyn while Sansa and Tyrion stay at the front. Maps and reports cover the desk, but it’s a map of King’s Landing that takes up most of the table.

Sansa stands, but Tyrion sits, to give himself the better height to see it all. “My father and sister need to die.” Tyrion says succinctly.

For a moment, Robb just stares at him with shadowed eyes. “And you will become kinslayer so freely?”

“No.” Tyrion says flatly. “Loathe as I might, he is my father, and she is my sister. I will play no part in their deaths - but I will tell you why it’s wise.” Tyrion says firmly. “My sister will do anything,  _ anything _ at all, to protect her children. Myrcella is currently in the grasp of Dorne, protected from Cersei’s grip, but Tommen is in her hands. And she would burn the world with wildfire if it meant keeping him safe.”

“My father, on the other hand, will use Tommen’s good heart and naivety to control him. For now, Tywin is the true king of Westeros, and that does not bode well for us, as he is arguably one of the best military generals out there right now.”

“One of.” Robb says with a hint of a smirk.

He has, after all, beaten Tywin at every turn so far. 

“Don’t get cocky.” Tyrion warns. “Due to my lovely wife’s work, Tywin is about to become a cornered lion.”

For a moment, there’s silence. Then Robb blinks at Sansa, who can’t help but smile faintly.

“Sansa?”

“I’ve come up with a plan, my beloved brother, that I believe you’ll find fits your goals neatly.” Sansa reaches out to take Tyrion’s hand in hers, fingers entwining, and ignores the look her mother sends at the gesture. “Tell me, Robb. Do you want to be King of Westeros, or King in the North?”

He blinks at her, then makes a face.

Sansa grins.

“I have a solution for you.”

 

* * *

 

 

“You’re not going.” Robb snarls fiercely.

“We’re going.” Sansa counters calmly, running a thumb over Tyrion’s knuckles.

“Your plan is suicide! Damn it, Sansa, you’re the only sister I have left!”

“You’re wrong.” Sansa counters instantly and Catelyn takes a sharp breath. “Arya escaped the city. I’m surprised she hasn’t made it here yet, but she’s on the way, and Bran…” Pain stabs through her mind and she falters, Tyrion’s grip tightening. “Bran and Rickon are safe, too.”

“Bran’s gone missing.” Robb says tightly. “Winterfell is in the hands of Rickon now, and he’s only a child.”

“Maester Luwin will guide him well.” Sansa counters. “But my point remains the same. You will not tuck me away into a false sense of security, Robb Stark. I am your sister, and I  _ will _ do my fair share of the work.”

“You want us to give the throne back to a Targaryen.”

“She’s not like the rest.” 

“How can you know that?” Robb snarls fiercely. Grey Wind shifts uncomfortably beside the table. Tyrion stiffens, ever so slightly, at the wolf so large it could eat him in two bites.

“You  _ know _ how I know it.”

“I don’t! I’ve never known, Gods damn it, Sansa!” He snaps sharply. Catelyn makes a soft noise of displeasure.

“Robb,” She starts, but he cuts her off.

“How is it you know things, Sansa? Dreams? Visions? Do you have the greensight and you’ve hidden it from us this long?”

“Robb.” Sansa says quietly, and silence falls in the tent. Robb practically pants as he stares her down, anger fierce in his eyes. Sansa releases her grip on Tyrion’s hand and circles the table, taking Robb’s. “Come here.” She gestures to the nearest brazier, burning bright and wicked in the night.

He goes and she stops just in front of the fire.

“Lean in, Robb. Look.” Sansa says softly, staring intently at the flames.

She watches, Robb leaning in closer.

The fire dances.

 

* * *

 

“I don’t understand.” Robb says softly as they sit on the edge of the bed, Catelyn and Tyrion at the table. Catelyn is frowning disapprovingly at them, but Tyrion’s studying the maps with a deep frown.

“They say Stannis has a red woman who can speak to fire.” Tyrion notes absently, pulling up a small scroll.

Catelyn snaps out and swats his hand, making him drop the scroll, and he sends her a wounded expression. 

“What was that I saw, Sansa? An army beyond count… from where? The Targaryen girl?”

“No.” Sansa refutes, touching a cloth to her nose. “The army in the North. The Others.”

“The Others? A fairy tale.”

“Then why is there a Wall made of ice and magic to the North?” Sansa counters softly.

“To keep out… the wildlings…” Robb says slowly, his brow furrowing as he speaks.

“It seems rather excessive, doesn’t it? A wall so massive to block out the occasional attack party of wildlings. Except now the attacks aren’t so small, are they? They’re gathering. They’re  _ fleeing.” _

“Fleeing?” Robb echoes, brow furrowing.

“Why would they imbue the Wall with magic if it were to just stave off the occasional hunting party, Robb? Why would there be a wall of ice and magic to fight off  _ humans?” _ She whispers hoarsely, dabbing at her so far blood-free nose. “What lies beyond the Wall that scared the First Men so much that they created a wall of ice and magic to stave them off? So desperate that they’d even go so far as to entrap their own people on the other side?”

Robb’s nose wrinkles at that implication. “The Wildlings are nothing like us.”

“Not anymore. And if we leave them beyond the Wall, they’ll just become more for the army of the Others.”

“I’m still not convinced there are the Others.”

“Then leave that for now.” Sansa says dismissively. “Focus on what started this entire argument. Send Tyrion and I to Daenerys. Let us negotiate with her. You’ll continue your war, you’ll secure the throne, but I know as well as you do that you don’t want to be King. So we’ll negotiate. We’ll hold the throne for her, if she concedes to allowing the North stay independant.”

“If what you say is true -  _ if  _ \- then we’ll need more than just the North to fight back these… Others.”

“No, you won’t.” Sansa’s eyes glimmer. “Send word to Jon. Send Jon to the King-Beyond-The-Wall. Mance Rayder.”

Robb’s eyes widen and even Tyrion’s head pops up at that, looking at her incredulously. “You want me to negotiate with the Wildlings?”

“You’re fighting the same battle now, Robb. The Wall hasn’t been properly manned in centuries. They’ll never kneel to you, Robb, but even they don’t deserve to die and become more soldiers for the undead. There’s a hundred thousand Wildlings gathering north of the Wall. Give them land. Hells, give them  _ lordships. _ Do what it takes to convince them to fight for our side. Mance Rayder was one of us once. He knows our ways. They follow him anyways. Negotiate with him, and you’ll get the men you need to defend the North.”

“They’re _ Wildlings, _ Sansa. If I let them past the Wall, I lose my men.”

“Then do it right.” Sansa says, eyes glinting, and ignores the way her mother and husband are watching her. In pride, and like she’s never seen her before in her life.

She ignores it because it hurts, and Sansa’s hurt far too many times in her life before now.

So she ignores her mother. She ignores the warmth her husband’s pride brings her.

She carries on.

 

* * *

 

_ Bring your men to the Wall. Let them see it for themselves, and they’ll accept the help of the Wildlings, _ Sansa advises.

Robb watches her uncertainly, but gives up on arguing.  _ I’ll consider it,  _ he concedes.

Then he gives her and Tyrion a tent for the night.

They don’t use it.

“Dragonstone.” She tells her husband, and they leave immediately, and without a word to anyone else.

“Dragonstone,” Sansa says, and finally, there’s a hint of blood around her nose. “There’s a woman there I need to see. We’ll go to Meereen from there.”

“Are you sure Stannis will let us?”

“Yes.” Sansa reassures, kissing her husband’s forehead and gently pushing his hair back. His scar bares fully, but she doesn’t care. She never has. “We’ll go to Dragonstone, and then we’ll go to Meereen and speak with Daenerys.”

“Your brother will be furious.”

“He was amiable enough. He doesn’t want to be King of Westeros, just King in the North.”

“And you’re doing this without his consent, or the knowledge that Daenerys will be content with being Queen of the  _ Six _ Kingdoms.”

“She’ll cope.” Sansa says with a derisive sniff. “We’re practically handing it over to her. She’ll manage to accept the concession.”

“Sometimes, my darling wife, I wonder if you shouldn’t be the one ruling the Seven Kingdoms.” Tyrion says with an exasperated shake of his head.

Sansa looks sideways at him and grins. “Who says I’m not?” She asks mischievously.

He grins back, darkly amused, and she kisses him.

“I love you, my darling wife.”

“And I love you, my dear husband.”

Together, they make for Dragonstone.

 

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Middle of the night but I hope some of my fans enjoy the late posting! Haven't been feeling so great so I'm on a bit of a writing spree. Expect a few chapters more soon! <3


	10. Chapter 10

The ride to Dragonstone is uneventful at best.

Their arrival, on the other hand, is not.

“Don’t you think this is a little dramatic?” She muses as she and Tyrion are bound and marched up from the bottom to the top of Dragonstone’s ‘thousand steps’. 

She’s not sure if that claim is accurate, but it certainly feels like it as they climb higher and higher.

“It’s not my first time in binds.” Tyrion muses and Sansa smiles faintly.

“It’s my first time. Always wondered what it would be like.” She says lightly and he glances at her, amused. 

“And what do you think about it?”

“Oh, shut up up there.” One of the guards complain.

Sansa smiles and presents her unbound hands to Tyrion. “I think it’s easier than I thought.”

His eyes widen and Sansa ducks just in time to avoid a flying fist. She whips around and dances away laughingly. “Can’t catch me.” She teases before turning and dashing up the stairs.

Tyrion winces and quickly says, “I had nothing to do with that,” before being harshly shoved forward. One of their guards rushes after Sansa, but he’s no match for her long legs and dancing dodges. He can’t help but watch wistfully as the woman plays with the man.

“She makes Darion look like a fool.” His own guard sighs, pushing Tyrion ever on.

“She ma kes everyone look like a fool.” Tyrion says agreeably. “One of her best qualities.”

“Oh, shut up.” He complains as Sansa ducks under another grabbing hand, spinning around to trip the man and send him crashing to the stairs.

“For an escapee, she doesn’t seem very keen on escaping.” His guard notes as they watch her scale the steps.

“We came here willingly, if you’ll recall.”

“You’re still a Lannister.”

“And she’s still a Stark.”

“You’re enemies of the Crown, no matter what you claim.”

“And which Crown is that? There’s ever so many now.” Tyrion sighs dramatically.

The guard shoves him again, apparently unimpressed with his attitude.

Eventually, they make it up to the gates of Dragonstone, where Sansa sits with Darion hovering threateningly over her. She beams at him and he smiles back at her, amused. “You shouldn’t have played, my love.”

“Oh, but she should have.” An unfamiliar female voice says. Tyrion looks at the grand doors that lead into Dragonstone, a red haired woman standing there. The red witch, he expects. “Release them.” She instructs, and the guards hastily follow. Tyrion shakes blood back into his hands and Sansa stands up, towering so tall she’s eye to eye with the red witch, who smiles gently at the girl. She caresses Sansa’s cheek and Sansa smiles back, to Tyrion’s confusion. “You took so long to come to me that I wondered if you’d forgotten.”

“I could never forget, Melisandre. Not for a single second.” Sansa says quietly, subdued, and Tyrion’s discomfort grows. Just how do these two know each other, and why does Sansa sound so… sad?

“Come.” Melisandre says, gaze lingering on Tyrion for a long moment. It’s disconcerting, like she’s staring straight through him, but he doesn’t let it show. Melisandre holds out an arm, gesturing inside the castle. “I must speak to Sansa, and you must speak to Stannis, Tyrion Lannister.”

“Of course.” He says, a bitter taste in his mouth at the idea of leaving them alone.

But Sansa enters the castle without hesitation, and he has no choice but to follow.

He enters Dragonstone, knowing it might mean his death.   
  


 

* * *

 

 

He expects them to be separated. 

In truth, they end up in the same room. The war room. Stannis stands tall against the table and Tyrion barely reaches the height of it, so he takes the liberty of dragging out a chair and sitting. Melisandre and Sansa go to the other side of the table, to the fireplace, and sit so close they’re pressed against one another. 

Stannis watches them for a long moment, then turns his attention to Tyrion, and the real battle begins.

* * *

 

It takes three hours to convince Stannis to accept that Robb Stark is winning the war. 

Then it takes fifteen minutes for Stannis to lose his temper.

“I will not bow to this ‘Young Wolf’ who thinks himself so clever!” Stannis roars, bringing silence throughout the room. Sansa and Melisandre turn to them, the Red Witch’s eyes shadowed. “The Iron Throne is mine by right.”

“No. It’s Robb Stark’s by right of conquest.” Melisandre speaks up at last, rising from the fireplace and offering Stannis a soft smile. 

Stannis falls silent for a long minute, then looks at her with betrayal on his expression. “You would have me give the Iron Throne to a usurper?” He asks in a dangerously quiet tone.

“Come here, my lord.” Melisandre implores, and curiosity has Tyrion stepping over as well. Sansa takes his hand and Melisandre takes Stannis’, pulling them closer to the fire. “Look into the flames, my lord. See where you’re needed.”

Silence fills the room, broken only by the popping and crackling of the flames.

Sansa stares in, face blank but somehow haunted, and Tyrion  _ tries _ to see something, but can’t quite manage it.

“Snow.” Stannis says slowly, confusion replacing his earlier contained rage. “Ice and snow. Death and rebirth. What kind of monsters are those?”

“White Walkers.” Sansa says sadly. “Monsters that can only be stopped by fire, dragonglass, and Valyrian steel.” She pauses for a moment. “And we just so happen to be sitting upon a mountain of dragonglass.”

“Yes,” Melisandre says with a slow smile. “We do.”   


 

* * *

It takes three hours to convince Stannis that Robb is winning the war.

It takes  _ nine _ to convince him to give up the campaign.

“You want me to give the throne to a Targaryen girl, and fight for the North.” Stannis scowls down at the table that maps out all of Westeros.

“You are my king either way, Stannis.” Davos Seaworth says firmly. “But their argument is sound. We can’t ignore this threat to the North. They need our men, and we can provide.”

“We’ll have to release the mercenaries from their contracts. That near halves our people.” Stannis sighs, reaching up to rub the bridge of his nose. “You ask too much. To surrender the throne. To  _ hand it over _ to a girl who hasn’t stepped foot in Westeros since she was a babe in these very rooms.”

“Daenerys is the Princess Who Was Promised.” Melisandre proclaims, and silence reigns for a moment.

“Princess? I thought it was a Prince you’ve been raising our armies for.” Davos frowns. 

“There is both.” Melisandre says firmly. “I won’t say who the Prince Who Was Promised is - but know, he needs your help at the Wall.”

“The Night’s Watch?” Stannis questions and Melisandre smiles faintly. She leans in, whispering something in Stannis’ ear, and his gaze darts to Sansa, eyes narrowing, before settling back on the table. “I see. The Wall, then. Have your visions shown us anything else, Melisandre?”

“Not as such. I see many things, but only in fragments. Sansa. Come closer.” She beckons, and together, they return to the flames, gazing in intently.

Tyrion holds his tongue for a long minute before looking at Stannis questioningly. “What did you mean you’ve been raising your armies for the Prince That Was Promised? I thought you were aiming for the Iron Throne.”

“And I have been.” Stannis says with a bitter expression. “It is mine, by right of conquest and birth. But I have been working on discovering the Prince That Was Promised so that we might help him in the coming times.” He pauses, glancing out the gaping arches that fill one wall, exposing them to the elements. “Winter is coming, and with it, the monsters. We will need him. And her.”

“Two?” Tyrion que stions and Davos frowns.

“Supposedly.” He cuts in brusquely. 

“Have faith, Seaworth.”

“I have faith in you, King Stannis. Not so much in fairy tales.”

“Look into the fire and see for yourself, Onion Knight.” Melisandre invites from the brazier, which make Sansa’s hair light up like fire itself.

Tyrion watches his wife wistfully as she shifts, giving Davos a clear view of the flames.

There’s a long moment before he sighs and shakes his head. “I see naught but fire, my ladies.”

“A shame.” Melisandre says, running a hand inappropriately down Davos’ arm. He pulls away disapprovingly, but his frown is aimed more at the flames.

“Tyrion, my love.” Sansa beckons suddenly. “Come look into the fire.”

Tyrion hesitates, glancing at Stannis, but the man nods at him and gestures to the two women. 

He approaches, Sansa’s hand gripping his the moment he’s close enough. He doesn’t have to crouch to see the fire, but she pulls him down just a little, until he’s a bit too close to the fire for comfort.

“Sansa,” He starts, but she shushes him.

“Just watch, Tyrion. Watch how it dances. Read the flames.”

He watches, seeing nothing but fire and crackling wood. “Sansa,” He starts again, and again she hushes him.

“Watch.” She squeezes his hand gently.

He watches, and slowly, he begins to see.

The Wall and beyond, mountains and snow, and far past it all, an army. “What…” Tyrion starts, his brow furrowing. The army is beyond the numbers of any army in Westeros, and unease twists his stomach. 

_ How..? _ He wonders, and then a dragon explodes forth, flying at him and opening it’s maw wide-

He flinches back, Sansa pulling him away, and he stares at the plain fire with wide eyes. 

“What-”

“I’m sorry, my love.” Sansa pets his hair gently, looking at Melisandre over his head. “I should not have let you look so deeply.”

“He saw what he needed to see.” Melisandre corrects and Sansa frowns almost disapprovingly at the woman.

“What did he see? More than just the army?” Stannis demands and Melisandre closes her eyes for a moment - almost like she’s asking for patience - before opening them and turning towards the man.

“The army’s greatest weapon, my lord. The desecrated remains of one of Daenerys Targaryen’s dragons.”

Silence fills the room.

_ “What?” _ Stannis demands.

 

* * *

 

When they retire that night, it’s to a lovely room full of unpleasant tenseness.

He’s three glasses in before Tyrion can look at her. “How long have you been able to do that, Sansa? With the fire?”

“Since I was a babe.” She admits, sipping at her own cup of wine. Unhappiness is written across his face. “No one believed me. No matter how many things came to pass did they believe me. Not once. No one but Jon.” She says it sadly, not a hint of anger, but a bit of hurt. “My father’s ward thought me witless. Robb thought me strange in the head. My own mother believed we were cheating you when they arranged my marriage to Joffrey.” Tyrion snorts softly and a hint of a smile plays at her lips, vanishing almost immediately after.

“I believed you.” Tyrion says and Sansa nods, sipping again.

“Yes.” She says softly. “And I’ve loved you for that. But some secrets must be kept, until the time is right and the trees have wept.”

“The trees have wept?” Tyrion asks in confusion and she looks away, playing with her glass.

“I bleed, Tyrion.” She says in an utterly tired tone. “I bleed and I bleed, and it’s horrible. I have so much in my head, so much that I know and that I’ve seen, and so much to  _ tell. _ But I bleed if I try before the right time.” She scoffs, lifting a hand to her face, and he can see the blood on it when she withdraws it. He immediately passes her an ever-ready handkerchief and she presses it to her nose. “Even now, even  _ now, _ I bleed.”

“I don’t understand.” Tyrion admits quietly.

“And why should you?” She muses, half to herself. “Why should anyone? I’m mad, Tyrion, haven’t you noticed?” Sansa looks back at him, her expression so very  _ sad, _ and his chest aches for ever being angry with her. “So… bloody mad. And there’s so little I can do. Who listens to a mad woman sing her sorry tales? Who listens to the mad dog who howls his warning  cries?”

“You’re not mad, Sansa.” He argues, shaking his head. Thin, red rivulets run from her eyes, and worry blooms in him. “You’re just different, my love, and that changes nothing for us.”

She sits down on the bed and he takes the handkerchief from her, wiping at her eyes. “We need to leave.” She says softly and he nods.

“Yes, we do.”

“This is no place for us. Robb will act his part, Jon will do his work, and Melisandre will play her games. But we must perform our roles.” Sansa murmurs, and her red eyes blaze like fire.

 

“It’s time to go to Essos.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I hope you enjoyed ♥


	11. Chapter 11

The travel to Essos is somehow, inconceivably, without a single incident. 

It takes a month and a half to reach Meereen, and two weeks to be granted audience with the Queen.

Not because they’re rebuffed, but rather because they take two weeks to relax and enjoy being on land once again.

All it takes is one sentence, and they’re urged into Meereen’s towering temple.

“My name is Tyrion Lannister, and I’m here to see the Queen.”

From there, it’s much more difficult. Tyrion does what he does best and carefully talks Daenerys Stormborn from bringing her namesake down upon them, and Sansa stands off to the side, watching the flames in a nearby brazier. 

“And who is your wife?” Daenerys asks coldly as Sansa watches a wolf dance in the snow. “Is she… simple?”

“Simple?” Tyrion demands in controlled outrage. “My wife is Sansa Stark of Winterfell, second born sibling to Robb Stark, and she is  _ not simple.” _ He barks harshly.

“Watch your tone.” The man beside Daenerys bites out sharply.

Sansa runs her hand through the fire, dismissing the wolf, and a crow takes its place.

“Did she just-”

“Sansa!” Tyrion’s cry overpowers Daenerys’ question. He’s at her side in an instant, taking her hand, and she squeezes his gently. “Did you burn yourself?”

“Not at all, darling.” She assures him distractedly, watching the crow fly over water. Endless water. 

“Sansa Stark.” Daenerys says commandingly, and she allows her attention to be dragged to the beautiful Queen. She smiles and curtsies, still holding Tyrion’s hand. 

“My Queen.” She greets warmly.

“How is your hand not burned?” Daenerys demands, standing up and approaching them. She descends the stairs with an almost ethereal gracefulness, and Sansa pulls her hand from Tyrion’s to present it without being asked.

“I do not fear fire, My Queen. I fear not the bite of ice or the burns of flames. And fear, my lady, is everything in this world.”

Daenerys stares at her with intent, bright purple eyes, and Sansa meets them with a gentle look.

After a moment, Daenerys extends a hand, the white sleeve falling to her elbow, and holds her hand in the fire. Sansa watches for a moment before extending her hand as well. Their thumbs brush against each other as the fire tickles at their skin, and Tyrion exhales slowly through his teeth.

“Sansa…” He whispers, no doubt hurt that she’d kept such a thing from him.

But then, she keeps many things from him - and from the world in general.

It’s safer that way.

But, sometimes, things must come to light. “My Queen, have you ever heard of the Red Priestesses of Asshai?”

 

* * *

 

“You say you’re one of them?” Daenerys questions when they’re all in her solar, indulging in a bit of surprisingly flavorful wine. Her two advisors - well, guard and advisor - do not partake, but the Queen, Tyrion, and herself do.

“Not officially, no. But I was trained in their ways.”

“Melisandre.” Tyrion pieces together and Sansa inclines her head. “That’s how you knew her. She spent time in Winterfell?”  He questions and Sansa hesitates for a moment.

She can dance around answers or lie, but Robb and Catelyn live still, and they’ll undo her lies easily.

So she sits there and contemplates in silence, until eventually, Daenerys simply asks another question.

“It’s said the Priests and Priestesses of Asshai can see the future in fire.” She says, and Sansa nods her head.

She turns and grabs the nearest brazier, pulling the red-metalled bowl from the top of it and setting it on the table between them all.

Daenerys looks at her with hooded eyes.

“Show me.”

Sansa smiles and leans in.

 

* * *

 

 

Fire doesn’t speak to her. It shows her images, flickers in the cinders, and she sees snow.

“Snow.” Sansa says, for what must be the sixth time in the past ten minutes. “A raven, flying north. I see a stag racing after it.”

“Stannis.” Tyrion concludes and she hums absently in agreement.

“The brother of the usurper?”

“So many are called usurpers now a days.” Tyrion muses. “To Stannis, Robb Stark is the usurper. To you, Stannis’ brother is the usurper. We’ve nearly as many usurpers as we have kings and queens.”

“The North stands alone.” Sansa says suddenly, frowning. “Snow in the shadows, snow in the flames. Show me,” Sansa commands the flames, narrowing her eyes, and a vicious blizzard fills her vision. “Everywhere I look, I see snow.”

“Winter is Coming.” Tyrion says sardonically.

“Hush, love.” Sansa murmurs and he falls silent.

She narrows her eyes further, urging the flames to cooperate, but they fight back. Every time she looks away, the snow returns.

“I can see nothing but snow, now. It’s overwhelming my sight. A raging blizzard, icy lakes, a towering Wall…” Something catches her eyes and she goes soft all over. “Jon.” She whispers, too soft for Daenerys or Tyrion to hear. 

“What does that mean?” Daenerys questions with an intent frown, clearly weighing her by her response. Sansa frowns at the flames.

“I believe Tyrion had it right. Winter is coming, and even fire is trying to warn us.”

“And what does  _ that _ mean?”

“It means… well, I’m not sure. A particularly vicious winter, to be sure. That much is obvious. Tyrion, remind me, we need to stockpile grains.”

“Of course.”

“The North stands alone.”

“Why?” Daenerys demands, leaning forward. “Why do they seek independence?”

“Consider my brother’s position.” Sansa begins, looking up from the flames for a moment - but a flicker of bright, vibrant blue drags her gaze right back down, only to see more snow.  _ What? _

“Sansa?”

“Hm? Oh, yes. My brother rallied all the houses of the North, both friend and past foe, to wage war against the south for their crimes to me, my sister, and my father.”

“Crimes against you?” Daenerys questions, brow furrowing. She smiles faintly, still watching the fire for that flicker of blue.

“My wife was tortured and tormented by the so-called King Joffrey.”

Silence reigns for a moment. “On the positive side, I found the love of my life in that world of hell.” Sansa says lightly, squeezing Tyrion’s hand and sipping at her wine with the other. Daenerys doesn’t seem as touched by her proclamation as he is. “Every battle my brother won meant another beating and whipping in the middle of court. He would strip me in front of everyone and have his Kingsguard beat and strike me with the flats of their blades. I carry more scars than we can count.”

“And I have tried.” Tyrion adds darkly. “So that I could know how many times to whip Joffrey before letting the boy die.”

Silence, again.

“...You hate your family almost as much as I do.” Daenerys says slowly.

“No. I hate Joffrey and Cersei as much, if not more, than you do. But my sister’s other children - Myrcella and the ‘King’ Tommen - are innocent and the sweetest, kindest children you will ever meet. My brother may have killed your father, but I can tell you why, if you want to hear the worst side of your father.”

“Your brother is the Kingslayer.” She says quietly, but hard.

“Yes. Would you like to know why?”

“It won’t matter. I want him dead.”

“And I don’t blame you, considering your position. But let me explain why he did what he did, and tell me if you still feel that way.”

Tyrion tells Daenerys about the wildfire under the city, the rapings of her mother, the deaths of hundreds at the Mad King’s hand.

Sansa watches the fire for even a glimpse of the blue from before.

The terribly familiar blue.

 

* * *

 

“I won’t forgive him.” Daenerys says firmly, an hour later.

“No one blames you for that.” Tyrion agrees. “I only ask that you grant him the same mercy as he granted the whole of King’s Landing by preventing your father from unleashing his wildfire.”

“I will  _ consider _ it.” She says tightly.

Tyrion takes a gulp of his wine and inclines his head. “That’s all that I can ask of you, my Queen.” 

“Sansa Stark. You’ve been awfully quiet. What have your flames been telling you?”

“That there is coal burning in this brazier.” Sansa answers honestly.

“Sansa.” Tyrion reprima nds and Sansa sighs.

“I’m being honest. The flames are stubborn-”

Blue flickers and she looks back, only to see two blue eyes staring right at her, a sword lashing out-

Sansa jumps away with a gasp, pain flaring in her chest. She lands hard on the ground, Tyrion scrambling to her side and Daenerys climbing to her feet, and she stares at the flames with wide eyes. 

She grips Tyrion so tightly he must be in pain, but he only looks concerned - and perhaps a little terrified - as he observes her. “Sansa? What is it? What’s happened?”

For a moment, she can only gasp in breath, squeezing her eyes shut.

_ “Valar Morghulis,” _ Arya whispers through a bloody throat.

Blue eyes, blue sword, piercing her chest.

_ “Valar Morghulis,” _ Arya says.

_ “Come with me,” _ Melisandre beckons, and Sansa opens her eyes.

A determined, cold sort of calm falls over her. “I apologize. I was… startled.” She says carefully.

“By what?” Daenerys questions, peering at the burning brazier skeptically.

“One of the Others. He… reached me, through my visions. I looked too deep.”

Tyrion runs his thumb over her knuckles, looking troubled. “You said that before. That I looked too deep, when I saw-” Her free hand presses to his mouth and he immediately goes silent. He glances to Daenerys fleetingly, questioningly, and horrified understanding sets in.

“Yes.” Sansa says, ignoring the questions he must surely have. She stands up from the floor, dusting off her yellow gown that brings out the fire in her hair. “Visions can be dangerous. You can reach too deep and… become lost in them, or worse.”

“Worse?” Tyrion echoes, climbing back into his chair and drinking a healthy amount of his wine.

“It’s possible to be… touched, by your vision. Physically affected. If I hadn’t pulled away when I did, my chest would be cut open.”

Tyrion freezes.

Daenerys blinks, frowning deeply. 

“But you pulled away in time?”   
  
“To an extent.” Sansa glances away, guilt pulling at her chest. “It’s dangerous to go too deep. Not only can you see what’s inside, but it can see you, too.”

“The…” Tyrion trails off, glancing fleetingly at Daenerys who luckily doesn’t notice, “thing… I saw. It came right at me.”

“And we pulled you away.” Sansa confirms with a nod.

“You have visions too?” Daenerys demands and Tyrion shakes his head, pausing for a moment to chug his wine and refill his glass.

“No. But Sansa and Melisandre guided me through one.”

“I could guide you as well, my Queen, if you’re curious. But all I can see right now is snow, so it would be terribly boring.”  _ Perhaps because of my proximity to you, _ she muses, recalling the connection Jon had to her. 

_ Azor Ahai, _ she reflects, peering at the flames, which show her snow still.  _ Azor Ahai and the Princess Who Was Promised. _

“Perhaps next time.” Daenerys says with a frown.

“It’s not for everyone.” Sansa says agreeable, but distractedly.

Snow fills her vision, crackling like flames.

A frozen wasteland in a brazier of fire.

 

* * *

 

 

They retire soon after, and Sansa lays with Tyrion that night.

When they’re spent and exhausted after a grueling two hours of ‘exercise’, they lie together panting and covered in their own filth. “We’ll need baths before we see the Queen in the morning.” Sansa notes, amused.

“I imagine she’ll have thought ahead. If she hasn’t, I’ll quietly excuse ourselves from any duties until we’ve done so.”

“Thank you, my lion.” Sansa breathes in the smell of his hair - which still smells like the fishy water outside - and breathes out against his neck. He wiggles slightly at that.

“How long will we be here, Sansa? I didn’t get the impression that Daenerys was in any hurry to leave.”

“I don’t know.” Sansa admits. “We’ll ask her more tomorrow, and get a better impression. I know for a fact that she wants the Iron Throne-”

“-that much is obvious-” Tyrion agrees,

“-but she also cares deeply for Meereen. She won’t want to leave it in its current state of disarray.”

“Wise for a ruler. Unfortunate for us, who urgently  _ need _ said ruler.”

“Perhaps Robb will cope for a year and give her time to get her things in order.”

“That sounds terrible.” Tyrion admits instantly.

“Yes, it does.” Sansa agrees with a heavy sigh. “On the other hand,” She points out as she rests her head on his chest, “Your father will probably hold King’s Landing against Robb’s siege for a year.”

“He claimed two years.”

“Have you seen the city people? One year at best, and then they’ll turn on Robb’s side because they’ll be starving even more than they already are.”

“That’s true.” Tyrion muses, frowning at the cloth draped atop their bed. The canopy is pretty, but useless, as the land is far too hot and dry for any bugs needing to be kept away. “You could be a princess, you realize.”

“I don’t care. Robb would make a good king, but he’d be miserable. I’d rather we be happy than we be royalty.”

“I could be marrying a princess.” He sighs plaintively.

She swats at his shoulder and he smiles. “Idiot man. I already am your princess, or you’re blind.”

“Of course you are.” He agrees, pressing a kiss to her forehead. 

Sansa glances past him and at the nearby brazier, and swears she sees a raven.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait =( If you read my Naruto fics you know that my grandma is dying and I'm having a very hard time dealing with it. I'll be going to her home in a very rural area soon and won't be able to update much for a while. 
> 
> Anyways, I hope you all enjoyed and will continue to enjoy any updates I offer ♥


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